Harry Potter and the Big Ending
by thecrazyfanficcer
Summary: *discontinued* Some would call the fanficcer crazy, posting its version of Deathly Hallows shortly before the book came out, but it didn't matter, right? After all, it was going to end plot threads. Romance, action, humor, and of course magic await!
1. Off to a New Start

**One can't say this bold move wasn't a crazy idea, but, on the other hand... (shrug) Before Deathly Hallows actually comes out in less than two weeks and I (figuratively speaking, of course) get my paws on it, well... In the meantime, I'm going to research with what J. K. Rowling herself has said in interviews. Apparently there's a wizarding form of the Internet.**

**But, for now... (evil grin) The moment you've all been waiting for... I present to my version of Harry Potter Book 7!**

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In all their twenty-seven years of living at Number Four, Privet Drive, the Dursleys had been perfectly normal people before that fateful gray Tuesday morning. On that day, almost sixteen years ago, strange things started to happen. Strange things that changed them once and forever. Strange things that, though little did they know it, would someday change the course of the history for ages to come.

Now, on this foggy morning in late June, history was about to repeat itself. Ever since that day, the Dursleys, though they had acted normal, weren't. They preferred to be normal, and considered themselves as such. But they knew they weren't, no matter how much they tried to stamp it out of him, tried to live the lives they used to live.

No, one couldn't exactly say that the Dursleys were normal when the only person on the entire planet who had survived the Killing Curse and destroyed the Dark Lord before he could even talk was sheltering under their roof.

It was a foggy evening that day, for sure, and the man of the household, Vernon Dursley, was about to leave. He was the director of a drilling firm called Grunnings, and a busy man such as himself had business to attend to at these late hours. He tried to seek out his wife and son, respectively Petunia and Dudley; quite a time had passed before he found them huddled behind the living room window. It was a window his nosy wife Petunia had often peered out, keen eyes catching sight of everything her neighbors did and said, and it gave a nice view of the front lawn. Not just the front lawn, but also the doorstep, the doorstep on which stood a stranger.

"Dear?" asked Mr. Dursley, setting his briefcase on the floor. "Dear, what's the matter?"

Wordlessly, Mrs. Dursley shook her head and pushed their son, Dudley, aside. Confused, but thinking he understood, Mr. Dursley gave a barely suppressed shout.

"It's the boy again, isn't it?" he grunted, abandoning his briefcase and appearing at the window between his wife and son. Dropping to his knees, he scanned the scene behind the glass as he felt them cluster around him. "I wondered what was happening to him. I was hoping he'd—"

But just what Mr. Dursley wanted to have happened to him, the others never found out. Instead, with a very loud gulping sound, he was answered by his son. "It's worse than that," Dudley said, piggy eyes searching through the glass as he wormed away from his parents and went to stand by the door, breaking out in shivering. "It's—" he gulped again—"just scary."

What Mr. Dursley saw would have scared him had he not happened to despise the person on the doorstep.

A tall teenage boy stood there, determined, not about to move from where he was anytime soon if his expression had anything to say of it. His brilliant green eyes, hidden behind round glasses and fringed by untidy black hair, glowed with both wisdom and pain, strength and sorrow. His arms were crossed, his expression was set, his jaw was clenched. He was clad in a sweeping black cloak with silver fastenings, from underneath which worn trainers poked. One hand was buried in a pocket, from which the tip of a holly stick was visible.

That it was a haunting sight indeed, to see their teenage nephew standing there with the light of determination in his eyes. It was in that instant that they finally realized that treating him as badly as they had for almost his entire life was going to have an effect on their lives, an effect much worse than anything they had ever imagined.

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"What do you want, boy?" grunted Mr. Dursley as Mrs. Dursley opened the door, looking weak, fragile, sick, as if she could be blown by the wind at any time. Mostly, though, like Dudley, she seemed afraid. "What do you want, boy? And why is your wand in your pocket like that? You're not allowed to do magic yet, according to that freak school of yours." Despite his affronted tone, the teenager on the doorstep knew he was panicked; his words were coming out fast and thick and his eyes were jumping from side to side.

"I— I'll explain once I'm allowed in." The teenager on the lowered his wand, watching his aunt's furtive movements, his uncle's body shaking despite his harsh words, and his cousin glaring at him from behind his parents. "If I'm allowed in, that is."

They drew back, their voices coming as a furious tangle of whispers from behind the door as Mrs. Dursley closed the door till it was a crack of light. As usual, they didn't explain why; the hiss that floated in the air was, quite plainly, "Wait here, boy." The teenager listened from his position on the doorstep, his attention intent and rapt.

"What should we do, Petunia? When the boy left, I thought he'd be out of our lives forever, but now he's back." Growling emanated from behind the crack of light, accompanied by pacing feet. "What are we to do, with him back here again?"

"I don't know, Vernon, but it can't be good." A nervous pause. "He never left for that long, you know."

"When he did leave the house, he never stayed away from us for over two weeks. And when his school ended for the summer, he never stayed behind. He always came back here, then left again when term started."

"I thought it was a good thing, for us." A pause, coupled with what sounded distinctly like someone shuddering. "I never thought he was dangerous, though…"

"Maybe he isn't… What do you think, Petunia?"

"I… I don't know what to think anymore." There was another pause, and the teenager knew exactly why. "His things are still in his room. If he's leaving…"

"I don't know, though. Why would he leave, now? Last year, last year when that ancient pillock came and severely damaged our heads—" now the voice held an outraged note in it, and the teenager smiled suddenly, remembering "—he told us he couldn't do magic before he was seventeen. He's not seventeen, not yet."

"His birthday's coming up." The teenager could imagine Dudley grimacing. "Trust me, I remember these things. His birthday usually makes me miss some of my favorite shows on the telly."

"We should let him in, Vernon. And, I think, something's wrong." Her words were getting faster and faster, jumbling up and around each other. "He's never done anything like that before to us. The world is dangerous. Times are dangerous. _He_'s dangerous."

"Yes, Petunia, but why be scared? I know he despised us, but he'd never, you know—" the voice was strangled, choking "—_kill _us."

"Mum… Dad… I don't want to die." The whisper was a whimper now, the whimper of someone about to die. "If I'd known— If I'd known, I never— I never would have made so much fun of him. I— I never realized…"

"He's dangerous, but it's not meant for us." The whisper had calmed, becoming calm, solemn. "We can't undo the past. This is how things are. We should just let him on his way. He… He has things to do, I know."

Another pause. The teenager listened in absorbed silence to the voices behind that wooden portal. Finally, someone spoke. "Are… Are you sure, Petunia? We've never liked him, and he's never liked us… How do you know?"

A resigned sigh. "Because, Vernon, I know…"

A half-hearted laugh, but the teenager knew that Mrs. Dursley had won. "We'll, Petunia, at least we'll be rid of him forever, eh?"

There was hesitation; the teenager sensed that she was going to say something before stopping herself. Instead, there was what appeared to be a hand turning a doorknob. "I'll let him in."

Seconds later, the door opened again. It was the three Dursleys against the teenager, armed with nothing but a wand which he couldn't use. "You can come in," announced Mr. Dursley to the teenager grudgingly. Mrs. Dursley opened the door and Dudley hid behind him, barely concealed by their combined bulk. "But that doesn't mean we want you here, boy," he grunted as an afterthought.

"Thank you." One hand on the wand in his pocket, the boy stepped through the doorway, watching as the door was closed behind him.

"What do you want?" Moustache quivering, Mr. Dursley leered at the teenager; it was clear that he was trying to hide his evident fear. "What do you want this time?"

The teenager silently watched the only family he had left: his uncle, sheltering his wife and son as best as he could behind his broad backside, his aunt, standing there, snappish-looking as ever but with something like grim determination in her movements, and his cousin, confused but trying as well as he could to look menacing by lifting one bulky fist.

"I just wanted to say goodbye." The teenager's words were clear, steady; he was finally doing it. "I… I'm going to be leaving tomorrow. I'm going to be gone from this house—" his voice wavered slightly "—forever." Still pressed on, holding their stare, brave green eyes looking solidly into their fearful ones. "I have to save the world. I don't know if you know, but everyone's in danger." He paused, searching their faces for any sign of expression. "Even you."

There was a stiff, awkward, uncomfortable silence. Finally, Mr. Dursley made a move. "Boy," he growled, jabbing an accusatory finger toward him, "you're lying. I know it."

The teenager continued to look calmly at them. "No, I'm not."

Mr. Dursley calmed down, and the teenager was left to wonder at his outburst – had he been feeling, dare he think it, _guilty_? He didn't have much time to ponder, however; before long, his uncle was back in the game.

"Well, good riddance, I say," he muttered, moustache quivering, eyes narrowed. "You'll be finally gone from us forever. Took you long enough." He backed up, allowing Dudley and Mrs. Dursley to gather in the doorway, one at a time. "Any words?" he grunted to his family, though it was clear that he didn't intend for there to be any.

Dudley glowered, standing in the doorway before the teenager. "I know you're my cousin, but I never liked you," he began. The person in question merely continued to look back at him without a word. "But now that you're going, I feel odd… Bad inside, because I did all that."

"Guilty?" offered the teenager, feeling a savage kind of pride.

"Not quite." Dudley glared. "Anyway, goodbye, I guess. I'll be happy to never see you again." A pause. "Though some more bullying would have been nice, I'm still happy I'm never gonna see you again."

"Petunia, dear?" Seeing that Dudley had finished, Mr. Dursley ushered Dudley away from the doorway. "Do you have anything to say to this—this scum?"

The teenager, noticing Mr. Dursley's sudden vehemence, forgot about it as Mrs. Dursley appeared before him. She had something to say, he knew, something more meaningful than anything else he'd ever hear in his life. He just did.

Mrs. Dursley stood there, looking at him, a strange glint in her eye. Not knowing what to think, the teenager gripped his wand in a tighter grip. He watched, as if in slow motion, his aunt came forward.

"I— I don't think anyone's ever told you this, but—" Nervously, Mrs. Dursley posed a trembling hand on the teenager's shoulder. Stunned, the teenager watched it, showing a trace of emotion for the first time. He knew, however, that Mrs. Dursley was going to tell him something – he just didn't know what.

"Lily— Your mother—" She broke off, but the teenager was more confused than ever. He had never heard her mention his mother by name; suddenly, with a sinking feeling, he knew that there were more pieces of the puzzle, pieces that he had yet to discover and fit together. "Lily knew— Lily knew that it would happen." Mrs. Dursley's voice choked as she stood there, sharp eyes staring at her nephew, the fear in her eyes mixed with something that seemed to be—to be worry. "Lily knew that–- that_ he_ would come."

By the way she said the word, the teenager knew exactly to whom she was referring. "She knew that she and that—that husband of hers would die, but the only person she ever told was me." Mrs. Dursley's hand jerked away impulsively from the teenager's shoulder, without warning. She was regaining herself, though she needed time to compose to deliver her message, a message that the teenager knew was reserved for his ears and his ears alone.

"She knew, but she only told me. I think—" and here she shuddered, her hand shaking as she posed it again on the teenager's shoulder. "That night— I think she was planning to escape, with you and her husband; it was the perfect night, being Halloween and all. No one would suspect. Lily was going to leave, going to say that she needed to bring you somewhere else, somewhere where you could meet your own kind, as a cover-up. She was planning to leave later on, but _he _got to her first. They were stopped. Her husband— He never knew she did." She paused to sigh, and the teenager sensed a trace of remorse.

"How did you know?" asked the teenager, eyes never leaving her face. Venom lined his voice, sharp and somewhat demanding, but it was tinged with shock and sadness.

Mrs. Dursley shook her head and drew back, her tone once more gaining an unpleasant edge. "Now, then, I'm happy you'll be out of our life." She glared. "You always were too ungrateful for everything we've done for you, anyhow."

The teenager looked on, not surprised, though a bit unsettled. He'd been expecting more.

Mr. Dursley briskly moved his wife away. "Go, boy," he declared, practically spitting the words. "We don't care – you said we're in danger, but I don't believe it."

"I'll do it, then. I have to go," whispered the teenager, looking into their eyes. His own reflected with pain, sorrow, loss, sadness.

And then was gone, running away from one life and into another.

Harry Potter was off to save the world again. And this time for good.


	2. Owl Post a Third Time

**Heya! 'Tis me! I hath returned! (laughs evilly and everyone stares) Oh, erm, speaking of the fic, the words you will soon read have been written in my own style of writing -- which changes consistently with every fic, so I suppose my style of writing for this fanfic. At any rate, it remains to be seen when I shall once more borrow JKR's style... MUAHAHAHAHAH! (more staring) OK, I'll be quiet now... On with the fanfic!**

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Harry scrutinized the horizon.

A few days ago, he had received a letter from the Order of the Phoenix, whose members were staying at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place for the time being. He had been informed that they would be picking him up and taking him off; he would be at the Burrow before the next day. He remembered the time they had first done that – two years ago, before he had started fifth year, though it seemed like much longer than it really was – and continued expectantly watching the evening sky.

When they arrived, right here where he was waiting outside Privet Drive, he knew that this time there would not be as much secrecy, as many things that had to be hidden. His mind wandered as he unconsciously focused on an object flying at a steady pace far in the distance. They would simply ask of him to hide in the shadows of the nearby park engage in their Side-Along Apparition, for he wasn't of age and hadn't got his license yet. Harry wondered who would come to pick him up – last time, it had been quite a large group, but, this time, he knew it would be smaller. The wizarding world was in danger – and aware of it. Many more things had to be done at the Order of the Phoenix nowadays, quite a lot more than had had to be done a few years ago.

Adrift in his thoughts, it was a while before Harry realized the shape he was concentrated on was, indeed, Hedwig. His snowy owl was flying fast now, quickly gaining ground. Moving away from the window, Harry watched as she alighted on the sill and proffered one leg, to which a few letters were tied.

Harry wasn't surprised; he hadn't been expecting any post, but something was bound to have turned up. "Good girl," he said with a smile, stroking her feathers. She must have picked up these letters somehow, he figured as he took them into his hand.

They were from his best friends, Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger. There was another one there as well, one from a person Harry knew well but had never received a letter from: Ron's sister, Ginny. Remembering the painful events of earlier that month, Harry decided to read her letter first.

_Harry—_

_I know, I know… You don't want me to go with you, Ron and Hermione to find the Horcruxes. But you can't stop me. I don't care what you say. I'm coming with you, and that's final. And, someday, after we save the wizarding world – if we're both alive, that is – we'll be at peace. I was expecting you to break us up a few weeks ago, but I'm not surprised if you want us to get back together._

_Don't forget to come to our house for Bill and Fleur's wedding, all right? It's on July 2__nd__. Mum's angry because Phlegm is staying at the Burrow, and to be honest, she's annoying the rest of us, too. Me being a bridesmaid – all I can say to that is 'ugh'!_

_Sincerely,_

_Ginny _

_(And don't try to stop me coming along with you lot!)_

Harry absent-mindedly turned the letter over in his hands. He'd been trying to protect her before, before school had ended, at Dumbledore's funeral. He hadn't wanted her to come; Voldemort had already used her once and would not hesitate in using her again. But now, he saw, there was no point. Ginny was determined to come find the Horcruxes with the three of them, and he knew she wasn't going to be stopped.

Harry read the second letter next. It was quite lengthy, judging by the thickness of the parchment envelope. Hermione, as usual, had a lot to tell him.

_Dear Harry,_

_I've been thinking, you see, about the hunt for the Horcruxes. I've been plotting a map out in a mind – you know, where we should search for them. I think that they're all in England somewhere, but they'll still be hard to find. And how are we even to know they're Horcruxes – maybe they'll be disguised as something. (I really doubt it, though, to be honest.) Will Voldemort be able to communicate with us through them? Thinking about that, I decided that we should as Professor McGonagall to take a look in Dumbledore's Pensieve – if Hogwarts doesn't open again, Hedwig and Pig will probably be able to find her. _

_I don't know if Hogwarts will open again next year but, even if it doesn't, we should try to convince the Ministry to reopen it. Honestly, Harry, I have to save that Rufus Scrimgeour seems to be more self-assured of himself than Fudge ever was, and I know that if he tries to close Hogwarts, we're going to have a lot of trouble. But I think we should try anyway, after we come back from the Horcrux hunt – I have a feeling that, if we spend this summer preparing and leave in September, we'll be done come this time next year._

_Don't forget that Bill and Fleur's wedding is next month, and Ron's mum told me that it's going to be at a Wedding Hall in Ottery St. Catchpole, hidden from the Muggles. We're all here, waiting for the Order to pick you up, Harry. Do come soon. After that, we have to go to Godric's Hollow, like you wanted, and then we have to spend the rest of the summer practicing for the Horcrux search with Ginny – she told me that she's going to come with us, and that's final. I know you want to protect her, but I think this is for the best. She's smarter now, and stronger; if we stick together, we'll be able to survive. Not to mention, she's the only person I know whose Bat-Bogey hex is that well-known in Hogwarts._

_Best wishes,_

_Hermione_

Feeling a spike through his heart at the thought of Hogwarts' possible closure, Harry dwelled on the matter as he slowly pulled Ron's letter open. He reasoned that they would be spending most of the school year trying to destroy Voldemort, and maybe that would convince the Ministry officials to keep the school open next year. It was a last, desperate hope, but then again he _was _desperate. He wanted Hogwarts to stay open – it had been his only home, his only home since his parents had died so many years ago…

_Harry,_

_Things are kind of grim here at the Burrow, and I haven't got much time to write this. (Fleur's going to call me upstairs to try on a new pairs of dress robes – maroon again. I think Mom knit them. Why am I not surprised?) Hermione's staying with us, and every few hours she wants me to come with her to study these ancient spells she dug out of _Hogwarts: A History. _Funnily enough, the book belonged to Mum – if I'd known, I would have given it to Hermione a long time ago. I never knew there'd be spells in it, but there are, and I can tell you they're not easy._

_Anyhow, how are you? Write back soon, because I don't want to practice Horcrux-blasting spells alone. And Hermione's been getting into SPEW again – no, pardon me, the Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare. _(Harry suppressed a snort, reading that. He could well remember back in the day, during fourth year, when Hermione had unsuccessfully founded that organization.) _I should be seeing you before long, though – the wedding is scheduled for July 2__nd__. Can't wait to see you._

_Ron_

Harry was surprised as he pocketed the letter with the others. Ron hadn't mentioned Ginny; considering heir past romance and the letter she had now written him, it was odd. Then again, maybe it wasn't, though Harry as he busily snapped Hedwig's cage open, which was standing erect on the trunk at hisfeet. Perhaps Rn hadn't mentioned her because he didn't want to cause a row. Harry could very well remember; Ron hadn't taken very well to Ginny's past romances, before their own. It didn't make much of a difference, in his opinion, but Ron could have been feeling bad about it. Harry didn't blame him, either – Ron had never been able to hold a steady romance with anyone, unlike his younger sister…

Then again, reflected Harry as he offered Hedwig her cage, maybe things were as they always were. Perhaps Ginny was acting as she always did – he hadn't expected her to pine for him that summer, anyway, he reminded himself with a grin.

It was with some reluctance that Hedwig flew into her cage and Harry closed it soundly shut. He could understand the owl's grudging attitude; this was her first time in her cage since the end of their sixth year – he'd spent the few weeks before wandering about Diagon Alley, wondering of the challenges and things he would have to overcome to defeat Voldemort at least, refreshing himself on incantations new and old alike, and wondering why in the world his year-old robes still, fit thus eliminating a trip to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. (In answer to that, he'd concluded that he was nearing the end of his adolescent growth spurts.) Hedwig wanted to continue flying freely about, living as her ancestors once hand, but she could not. He had to bring her along with him, wherever he would go.

Harry gathered the rest of his things, stuck them haphazardly into his trunk, and bewitched the lot so that it would be feather-light. He knew how he was going to get to the Burrow and, Side-Along Apparition or otherwise, he was going to need it. During his stay in Diagon Alley before he'd taken the Knight Bus – instant transportation for the stranded witch or wizard that, as it turned out, passed by every night – to Little Whinging, he'd been practicing, hard and long, on his journey to destroy the Horcruxes. After all, there was only so much one could learn in a sleepy little Muggle town, and the rest would be learned at the Weasleys' with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny.

He was ready to go be taken out into the night.


	3. Picked up and Taken Away

**Nooooooo! Deathly Hallows actually came out today at midnight, but even though I have easy access to it I'm not going to read it because of this fanfic! Nooooooo! (everyone stares, and some random person mumbles something) Well, yes, you are right in saying I shouldn't have started writing it in the first place, but now I have a destiny to fulfill. And, more importantly, I'm not gonna read the last HP book until I'm done. Nooooooo!**

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"Wotcher, Harry."

Harry looked up. Standing before him were three Order members – Nymphadora Tonks (surname only, thank you very much), Hestia Jones and Elphias Doge. There they were, standing before him, looking at him calmly as he stared back at them.

"Hi," he greeted, walking up as he pulled his feather-light trunk along behind him. "How are you?"

"Good, thanks," replied Tonks brightly. Harry happy to see that, after what had occurred last year, she was looking better than ever. Before, she had been so dismal that her Metamorphagus had, to a degree, been restricted; as of now, however, her bubble gum-pink hair was back and looking more vibrant than ever. She grinned. "So, planning to escape into the night, Harry?"

"Let's get on with it," announced Elphias wheezily, eyes sliding quickly from left to right. "The Muggles might see us, and we can get in trouble for that…"

"Yeah, about that." Hestia hesitated. "Harry, we can't let you Apparate over here." She gestured to the large, square, tidy Number Four behind them. "Are the Muggles inside the house?"

Harry grinned. "Yeah, they're talking about how 'dangerous' I am right now, I'll wager." He paused in thought. "Why is it only you three who are with me, and not the rest of the Advance Guard too?"

Hestia thought out her answer. "Harry, everyone knows You-Know-Who's after you, but Scrimgeour thinks you're able to do it on your own." She peered closely at him, speaking rapidly. "I'm not that saying that you can't, Harry, but Scrimgeour's word is law…."

"Actually, he probably can't afford it," Elphias chimed in.

"I wouldn't be surprised. The Ministry's using up all their money to protect us these days." Tonks laughed as she turned to Harry. "Anyhoo, you don't have your Apparition License yet, right?"

Harry shook his head. "My birthday's not until the end of the month."

"Just checking," Tonks assured him with a nod and what appeared to be an embarrassed smile. "See, Harry, the thing is, we're going to Side-Along Apparition, like we said in the letter, but it makes a noise, so we're going to have to do it a little farther back, where no Muggles will be able to hear us."

Harry thought about it for a moment. Dumbledore had done it… "Last year, when Dumbledore brought me to Slughorn's house, we did it…"

"Yes, but we're Aurors." Tonks grinned again, and Elphias finally ceased glancing furtively from left to right to look at her in amazement. "We're supposed to be more careful, even more careful than Dumbledore was – er, is."

A pause met her words as she turned around and began striding away from Privet Drive. Without having to dwell on it, Harry knew why; Dumbledore had died, he had lost his life to a heartless killer, the pain was still running deep in all of them…

Soon, he found that they had arrived at the local park. "This should do it," said Elphias, who was standing a few yards a few yards away, examining a tall Muggle sign that proclaimed the park's name, Littlebury Commons, in blod letters. "It says here the park closes at nine sharp, and—" he checked his watch, a small silver contraption inlaid with gold swirls --"it's already almost nine-thirty. No Muggles should be here, but we should hide anyway."

Hestia looked at him fondly as he walked away, nattering to himself. "Elphias is queer," she confided in Harry and Tonks. "He always thinks we're on the brink of being discovered by Muggles."

"We're not, but I guess he's—" Tonks' words were broken off by a muffled thump. Harry and Hestia ran to her side, helping her up.

"Well, I guess some things haven't changed," admitted Tonks ruefully as, massaging her sides, she rose. "I'm clumsy as ever." She looked down, aware of she stepped as she walked around an earth-clotted clump on the ground. "There I went again, tripping over a tree root, as usual."

"It's all right, it's all right," Hestia reassured her, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Listen, there's Elphias now and it looks like he's found a good spot."

Indeed, Elphias was coming toward them, a proud smile on his face. "Look, we can go do it here," he proclaimed, triumphantly pointing to a small, rectangular topiary. "No one's in sight."

"Inside it?" Harry stared uncertainly at the hedge, uncertain and a little repulsed. Not to mention, there weren't any convenient holes in its wide leafy breadth that looked big enough in which to hide.

"Wotcher thinking?" teased Tonks. "No, we're going to go _behind _it. That way we'll be actually be able to do it."

Harry nodded, looking sideways at Elphias. "All right, then," he said, a little embarrassed.

"Now off we go!" Elphias took each Tonks and Hestia by the arms, steering more painfully than necessary toward the topiary. Harry followed, keeping low to the ground when the other three dropped to their knees and crawled onward. Once they were standing before it, Hestia smiled happily and took his hand.

"All right, Harry?" He nodded; it wasn't the first time he would be doing Side-Along Apparition and, before long, he would be Apparating on his own. "OK, then. Here we go."

A loud _crack _resonated through the night air. Harry could barely think about anything that could go wrong. Then, before he knew it and without further ado, it had happened.

Harry and the three Order members were standing before the Weasleys' humble abode, the Burrow.


	4. In Deep Danger

"Well, here we are." Elphias blinked, starting quickly forward toward the Byrrow. "It's been a while, I must say."

"You've been here before?" Harry inquired as he watched the wizened Order member walk alongside Tonks and Hestia. "When?"

"'Twas a while ago, but I really enjoyed it then," Elphias replied reminiscently. "Good folk, those Weasleys. It was Order business, but I'll never forget my stay here."

Harry was about to ask another question when something disturbed the peace. The brown chickens he'd been absently focusing on as he spoke with Elphias had begun to scatter quickly about at the sound of a raised voice. And he could see why – he, too, was shaken and embarrassed by the row that met his ears.

"HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU NEVER TO DO IT AGAIN? JUST WHEN I ACTUALLY THINK YOU'VE ACTUALLY DONE SOMETHING WORTHWHILE FOR ONCE—"

Two clamoring voices met the anguished yelling:

"Mum, you know we were right when we said that Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes would be a smash."

"Yeah, Mum, it was. We're rolling in Galleons now. There's enough money to support us and give you a little extra money—"

"DO YOU REALLY THINK SO? DROPPING OUT OF YOUR LAST YEAR AT HOGWARTS AND NEVER EARNING MORE THAN HALF A DOZEN O.W.L.S AMONG BOTH OF YOU, AND NOW YOU'RE MULTIMILLIONAIRES?"

Now, her two repliers were annoyed and disgruntled:

"Well, Mum, to be honest – yes, we are multimillionaires. Well, almost."

"Yeah, Mum, just a few more million Galleons to go, and before long we'll be on the cover of the _Daily Prophet_!"

"YOU'RE THINKING ABOUT BECOMING RICH AND FAMOUS WHEN THERE'S A MUCH MORE DANGEROUS THREAT AT HAND? BEING RICH IS NOTHING, ESPECIALLY WHEN YOU SHOULD BE WORKING AT THE ORDER LIKE EVERYONE ELSE IS!"

"Pish tush, Mum, to be honest we don't need to. Our money will keep them out of debt."

"You do know that meetings of a secret anti-Dark wizard organization in an abandoned mansion that belongs to Harry now are actually quite time-consuming to manage, I presume? This is how we do our part, by earning everyone's keep—"

"'EARNING EVERYONE'S KEEP?' I'LL HAVE YOU KNOW, WE NEED HELP IN THE ORDER MORE THAN WE NEED YOUR 'HELP'— Oh, hello, Harry dear. We were expecting you."

Harry stepped forward, watching Mrs. Weasley as she glared daggers at her twin sons, Fred and George, giving an odd resemblance to a saber-toothed tiger, and his point was proven as the twins broke under the pressure and began walking determinedly toward the house, shortly followed by Elphias, Tonks, and Hestia.

"Wotcher, Molly," called Tonks as the three of them filed in through the front door. "We'll be in the kitchen."

"That's all right, Tonks," replied Mrs. Weasley distractedly. "We'll be there soon." Turning to Harry, she invited him in. "Come along, dear; you're in time. We're just about to have supper. Hermione's with us, too." Beginning to reenter the house, a stone structure whose many floors had been added time after time, she added, "the Order members want to have a word with you."

Harry watched as she left, calling out, "Give me a bit." Entering the house, he appeared behind Fred and George. "What did you do this time?"

"We were trying to come home to experiment for new products at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes." An annoyed Fred stared pointedly at his mother's disappearing figure. "Ginny and Ron said they wouldn't mind, 'slong as they weren't going to hurt them—"

"Percy, being the prat he is, still isn't talking to us," clarified George with a shake of his head. "And even if he were here I wager he'd be with Mum. 'But that's the wrong thing to do, and not to mention it can get you in trouble with the law.'" He pitched his voice higher, ending with a disgusted shake of the head. "I can just imagine him berating us like he used to, the Ministry's little Weatherby and all that."

"Anyhow, we wanted to try out these new products – they won't kill you, mind, but we can't tell you what they'll actually do to you." Fred exchanged a smirk with George. "Secrets of the trade, you know. It's confidential."

"After that, Mum wasn't happy." George rolled his eyes, stopping at the door. "She said we could get ourselves in serious trouble, especially since we weren't helping the Order out like she made everyone else."

"Helping the Order out?" repeated a bemused Harry. "Doing what? I mean, I know what's happening – people being killed, put under the Imperius Curse, going missing – but what's the Order going to do to help? Look for Voldemort?"

"Don't say the name, Harry," admonished George, faintly annoyed.

He nodded. He'd forgotten again. "Anyway—"

"We don't know, actually," Fred shrugged, "but we decided to help 'em out with the earnings from our shop."

"Mum didn't take well to it, naturally," George chimed in. "Especially when we came back. She seized the opportunity."

"Yeah, she's been yelling at us since this morning." Fred shook his head sadly. "I always knew Mum'd have to be tough to give birth to the awesome us, of course, but I never realized she could go yelling at us for half a day."

"We had to keep reusing the same old protests and reasons for why we're doing what we're doing." George hesitated for a brief moment. "We could have stayed at the flat, after all, but we didn't want to."

"We wanted to come home to our family, instead." Fred nodded. "'Sbeen ages since we've seen them, you know. Busy men have busy schedules, of course."

Harry checked his watch, a simple new one he'd thankfully bought at Hogsmeade earlier that summer. "It hasn't even been a month yet," he observed.

"So?" replied Fred stoically. "We wouldn't have seen them that time if it weren't for Dumbledore's funeral, after all."

Harry stood silent with the twins for a while, thinking with pain of the deceased Headmaster and pondering Hogwarts' oncoming future. It would not open again come September, he knew, he how he knew this he could not say.

"Anyhow," began George, breaking the silence, "we'd better get moving."

And got moving they did.

-------------------------------------------------

For once, Molly saw as she observed Harry like a eighth son – which, in a sense, he was – he was not concentrating on her scrumptious cooking and the pleasant chatter that surrounded them. Of course, the 'chatter,' albeit pleasant, held a forbidding note. Everyone knew that, with Dumbledore gone, one wrong turn in the Order's careful, perfectionist planning could lead to the deaths of money.

And, Molly had to say, not without reason. The world was in danger, more danger than they'd ever faced since Grindelwald's reign of terror during the First World War. Passwords whispered in the doorways of family and friends, security measures in every household, wizarding children under Hogwarts age locked up in the house day and night, stores closed and boarded up, people killed or missing (in the streets, no less) – the evidence was everywhere. It was truly the greatest danger both worlds, wizarding and Muggle, had ever faced. Every day, You-Know-Who was gaining more power.

And Percy still hadn't returned. Morosely, Molly turned to the Order members, Tonks, Elphias, and Hestia, as she remembered their place at the Burrow. "What do you need to ask Harry about?"

"We want to see if he's eligible for the Order, Molly. You needn't worry." Hestia smiled, tucking into her plate of fish. "And, I must say, your cooking is delicious."

"Yeah, we want him to be in the Order." Tonks, seeming to have cheered up since the last time Molly had seen her, at Dumbledore's funeral, changed her hair from bubblegum-pink to seaweed-green with a loud pop. "We have to try that, and give him pointers on what he has to do to save the world." She grinned, cheeks coloring slightly. "Remus said he would destroy You-Know-Who."

Molly glanced fondly at the one she had taken under her wing summer after summer. "I've no doubt."

"We were also wondering if any of the others would like to be in the Order." Hestia began anew, devouring another forkful of fish. "Of course, just in case, we'd have to try them, too, but that could be arranged. I'm pretty sure they're experienced enough to be eligible."

"Yeah, we're still working hard." Tonks seemed unusually thoughtful. "For example, we've had to owl Charlie so that he could come here. He's on the Romanian Knight Bus now, I think."

"Yeah, but, before the wedding, we need him on Order business." Hestia patted Molly's hand. "We also mentioned Bill's – er – injury," she added, voice low. "He wanted to see him, anyhow."

Molly glanced uneasily at her eldest son, Bill. He and Fleur would be married before long, and she was reminded once more of how fast her offspring were growing. Observing him, she noticed that his face – a reminder of the vicious werewolf Death Eater who had bitten him, though it hadn't been during the full moon – was still unrecognizable. But, aside from that and his odd fondness for rare meat, the disfigurement altered Bill very much, though she'd noticed a change in her son. He was more serious now, more conscious of what he was doing, more careful. He'd always been hard-working and down-to-earth, but on the other hand he'd been something of a dreamer, too. Now, though….

Molly sighed, feeling a tear forming in her eye. The whole world was splitting its seams around her….

"You're not the only one." Tonks' hair had been switched back to mousy-brown – the thought of Bill living his days as he was had made her happiness evaporate, Molly supposed. "I—I wanted to be with Remus, you know, but…" She shook her head. "I haven't seen him since Dumbledore's funeral, you know. He hasn't owled me or any of the Aurors, not once – I don't know if he's all right or not, still spending time with the other werewolves as he is."

The three women fell silent, a great sadness touching each of them in turn. Home was no longer home. There was no home anymore, not without Dumbledore.

-------------------------------------------------

Hermione was sitting on the bed in Ron's room shortly after dinner, an aged copy of _Hogwarts: A History_ propped up against his headboard. Ron was sitting at the bed, watching as his owl Pigwidgeon flew in through the window and hooted appreciatively. Crookshanks, Hermione's cat, watched him with keen yellow eyes, tail waving as he lay as if in wait.

"Shut your trap, Pig." Annoyed, Ron walked across the room and started rummaging through a bag of Owl Treats perched haphazardly on his bed. "Here. Have these."

The tiny Scops hooted a second time, hovering impatiently as he caught the Owl Treats and downed them in a second. Snapping at the other Owl Treats Ron tossed him, he flapped over to the cage on the windowsill and took his place in it. Ron was in the midst of replacing the orange and blue bag when a loud knocking sounded at the door.

"It's Harry!" Hermione closed the book, carefully marking the page with a strip of parchment she always had with her that served as a bookmark. "Finally!" she said, opening the door, "It took you a while to eat, didn't it?"

Harry came in, adjusting his glasses. "Good to see you lot again," he grinned, passing an eye over Ron's room. "Still going for those Chudley Cannons, Ron?"

"Yeah." Ron grinned and gestured to his violently orange bedspread, a light in his eyes. "But look, Harry!" he cried out, breaking away from the door and darting over to the bed. "Look at what Fred and George were able to buy me with the money from their shop!"

"I always said you should get a summer job, Ron," reprimanded Hermione as the lanky redhead reappeared with a package in his hands. "That is, earning your own money instead of relying on your brothers to buy you things."

"Well, have you?" Ron shot back as grabbed Harry's arm and dragged him over to the bedside.

"For your information, I was working as a freelance journalist for_ Wizarding Scribbles. _It was fascinating." Hermione closed the door and sat down by her friends as Ron ripped the plain brown package paper open slowly, increasing the tension yet more. "And I earned quite a lot, too."

"You were lucky," Harry told her. "When I was in Hogsmeade, I saw that most of the shops and business were closed and bolted down."

"It's really horrible, what they're doing." Hermione's jaw was set as Ron, taking his time, unraveled the silk-wrapped package. "I figured that those extra Dementors they put in Azkaban to guard it would have helped, but instead more of the criminals have escaped now than ever before."

"It's like the Dementors are working for You-Know-Who – not that I would be surprised," Ron suggested darkly, still pulling the silk away from the parcel. "Or, I guess, they could be following Sirius' example."

It took a while for Harry to answer and, when he did, his words were slow, measured, deliberate. "The wizarding world – and the Muggles', too – is in more danger than it ever was before after Dumbledore died."

Both Ron and Hermione stopped where they were to look at him. He was sitting calmly at Ron's right side, staring at his hands, clenched in his hands with whitened knuckles. "We're sorry, mate," Ron told him, voice low and sympathetic, reaching out a hand and patting Harry's shoulder. "We miss him too."

"We never knew him as— as intimately as you did, Harry, but I couldn't have asked for a better Headmaster." Hermione bit her lip, looking up at the ceiling. "I—Now that he's gone, I really miss him."  
Harry was surprised to find words pouring quietly off his tongue. "He— He knew. He knew that it was Snape all along. He knew that Snape's been plotting to kill him since first year, but he never stopped him, sacked him, had him testified and sent away to Azkaban. He always had faith in people. It was his fault, and he knew it."

A testy pause followed his speech. The three of them exchanged hopeless glances, at a loss, in despair; even Hermione couldn't deny that Snape was evil after killing Dumbledore, though they couldn't guess at his motives. Finally, his package forgotten, Ron pushed the tangle of white silk off his lap and reached for something behind his pillow. "Listen, Harry," he began, voice muffled by his Chudley Cannons blanket as he lay on top of it, "we—we didn't know what to do, after Dumbledore died. Fawkes is gone, maybe forever…."

"He's moved on," explained Hermione, her voice slow, hesitant. "He doesn't belong at Hogwarts anymore, now that Dumbledore's gone."

"But… But we found this in the staff room. This phoenix feather was on top of it." Ron resurfaced, clutching something tightly in his hands. "It's almost like the one in his office…"

"It was meant for you, Harry," Hermione finished quietly.

"What is it?" asked Harry, taking the bulky object in his hands, but he knew he didn't need to ask. Slowly, undoing the burlap paper that wrapped it, he stared hard at it, taking meticulous notice of everything about it: its carved wooden frame, its faded gold lettering, its scenery depicting a man sitting in a magnificent scarlet throne, its familiar face asleep but – at least – alive.

It was a portrait of Albus Dumbledore, exactly as Harry remembered him before his death. This, Harry knew, could be used to communicate with Dumbledore's dead self somehow – indubitably not as easily as he had with the living one, but, based on what he'd come to expect of talking portraits, fairly well. He knew that it was for him, as Hermione had said, even before he decided to take the single crimson feather into his hands and gaze at it. It was one of Fawkes', though how he knew he could not say. It was important, simply knowing that it was there – and, Harry knew, as he stared deeply at the feather, Fawkes was still alive. He would not return to Hogwarts, but he would return – somewhere, sometime, it didn't matter. He would, and that was what was important.

Harry sat, staring, mesmerized, at the feather; Ron and Hermione, he saw, were entranced as well. They gazed into its depths, unaware of the time passing as they stared clearly into it. It was in a daze that they rose finally, at Molly's calling, to go down to speak with the Order members.

Harry, remembering what Mrs. Weasley had told him before, found that he did not care what the Order member would ask him. They were on his side, anyhow, but then again, everyone not with Voldemort was, even the Ministry…

And he had to save them, save the entire wizarding and Muggle worlds from the abyss into which they had fallen.


	5. The Terror of Today

"Wonder what the Order members want me for?"

"Harry, you needn't worry." Hermione, sensible as always, knew what she was talking about.

"What?" asked Harry. "What do you mean?"

"Yeah, what are you saying?" echoed Ron.

"Well, three Order members have come to speak business with you, Harry, and us if we want to. I think they want to ask us if we can join them." "Because we're of age now, is it?" Ron paused to say before he resumed shoveling mashed potato into his mouth.

"But I'm not of age yet," Ginny said, "D'you think it's all right?"

Some furious chomping occurred then, followed by hasty swallowing. "Well, come along anyway. We'd better get. I think they want to talk to us in private."

Hermione made as if to speak, but paused in thoughts before her words. "It's best that we don't, actually…."

"Why?" Harry demanded. "Why can't we stand up for what we believe in? Why can't we fight?"

"Well, you see, it's because—"

Hermione was interrupted, however, when Hestia appeared, taking a seat on Harry's right at the dinner table. "You lot will be all right," she assured them, "Our talk pertains to you, but everyone else in this house is part of the Order anyhow."

"We need to test you." Tonks appeared beside Hestia, smiling brightly, though a trace of sadness could be detected in her voice. "See if you're eligible to become a member of the Order of the Phoenix."

"What do you need to ask is?" Ron chewed a lump of chicken as Elphias came into view beside his fellow Order members before swallowing. "I— Nothing like this has ever happened to us before."

"Harry, Ron, Ginny, we can't," interrupted Hermione, glancing around the table at the Weasleys who surrounded them. She paused, taking a deep breath, then, as if having made her decision, in a rush blurted out, "We have our business to take care of with V-Voldemort…"

Her acting was smooth, planned, perfect; Harry sensed that she'd only told them what to do earlier on as she'd been backed into a corner by his insisting. She'd actually been planning to tell them, he figured, at this time, in front of the Order members. Either that, or she'd been practicing.

"Don't say the name," interjected Hestia, bringing him back to earth with a pale face and a slightly shaking voice. "I simply can't stand it."

Tonks said nothing, but it was clear from her expression that she was trying to keep silent but having trouble. Biting her lip, she went on, "What? You're going to try to kill You-Know-Who?"

"Really?" wheezed Elphias. "I'd advise you not to do that without proper training, and the Order can help you with that."

"It's complicated," supplied Ron helpfully. "We could explain more, but – yeah, that's the gist of it."

"Good luck." Hestia's encouragement sounded whole-hearted. "But you're going to need help from the Order members, you know."

"Yes, and now that you're of age you can join us anyway," added Elphias.

"No. This is something I want to do alone." Harry looked from Ron to Hermione to Ginny. "At least, I would've liked to, if these three hadn't been so eager to try and stop me doing it."

"A friend is a friend, mate," replied Ron stoutly. "We can't just give you up like nothing's happened."

"We're always there for you." Hermione looked Harry full in the eyes. "Don't ever forget that. We wouldn't give up helping you for the world. He needs to be destroyed – and fast."

"Yeah – if we die, it'll be a sacrifice," Ginny went on fiercely. "We're always going to be there by your side, no matter what happens."

"So you can't become members, then?" With sadness, Hestia crossed Harry's name off a piece parchment list with a partridge-feather quill.

"Relax, Hestia," offered Tonks with a smile that was too cheerful. "They know what they're doing. And besides," she added to the trio with a wink, "if you kill Voldemort you automatically become a member anyhow. Wotcher."

"But you have to train plenty, I can assure you," Elphias lectured them sternly. "Train long, train hard, train well, and don't ever forget it."

"You're not worried about us?" Ron was dubious. "You're not worried we're going to kill ourselves?"

Tonks thought before she answered. "No. I know that You-Know-Who will be killed, and you'll be the ones who'll do it." She paused, her words going deep into each of them. "Now, who wants to see me transform into the person of their choice?"

-------------------------------------------

All through dinner, Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny tried to forget the task that they'd set to each other. It was relatively easy to do – even with the whispered chatter around them and the intense security that met their eyes surrounding them, Molly's good food and Tonks' transformations helped them forget the burdens of the life facing them. Tonks, a Metamorphagus who had been losing her powers in grievance for Remus Lupin, a close friend of Harry's dead father, seemed more cheerful than they'd ever seen her before.

They knew she was trying her best, of course, but they didn't say anything on the subject. Tonks was perhaps not entirely happy, but she was happy enough to entertain them with her transformations and, for the most part, she seemed sincere. But there was always that note of sadness in her voice, that look of regret in her eyes, that hurt inside her that infrequently showed her true colors. But she was there, all right, battling against her inner demons as best as she could.

"Want to see me do someone you know…a little too much?" teased Tonks. She had just changed her hair from flamboyantly red – she'd been trying to imitate Molly, complete with blazing angry eyes, which – surprisingly – had made the Weasley woman practically shriek with laughter – to its usual shocking bubble-gum pink. Now, finally, she seemed to have forgotten her sadness; she'd gone several minutes without that dismal, distant, bereft look in her eyes. On the other hand, one could say as much, considering they'd been at it for almost two hours.

"Is it a bloke?" asked Ron keenly.

"Oh, you'll know who they are, for sure," replied Tonks with a smile.

"You've already done almost everyone you know," said Hermione. "This is going to be interesting."

"Have to agree with that." Ginny perched on her elbows, watching intently.

"Watch."

Seconds later, Tonks' bright hair darkened, its traditional softness stiffening as if with grease. Her hair shortened, falling to become drapes over her forehead; her eyes darkened, too, becoming smaller, smaller, ever smaller. Her face thinned out, its fleshy color paling to a sickly, sallow pallor. Her nose stretched out, elongating and rearranging itself, straightening before dipping downward with a sharp hook.

Grinning in an oddly cheerful way, Severus Snape stared back at them.

Everyone fell silent as Tonks resumed her natural appearance – her hair paling from black to mousy-brown, her eyes getting bigger, rounder, her flesh darkening to a healthy shade. Tonks glanced at them, the smile quickly evaporating from her face.

"What…?"

A cloud passed through Tonks' eyes. Funny, how changing her appearance year after year had made her aware of what was happening on her face when she couldn't see it. But she didn't bother dwelling on the matter, instead remembering the shock on everyone's face. Earlier that summer, before Dumbledore's funeral, Harry had told them all that Snape was his killer.

Remembering that sad moment, Tonks felt newfound astonishment resonate within her. Severus – well, he'd been unpleasant, for sure, even reluctant to be in the Order. True, he'd joined up so many years ago, but, since then, it had become clear that he'd rather have been wasting his time doing more useful things. He'd always been there, but the constant look of disgust and annoyance on his face was enough to tell them he was forcing himself to do it for the greater good. He'd been there, time and again, grudging, a brooding presence, barely participating in the work and chatter alike that surrounded him. He'd been working for them for years, years before he had fled with the Death Eaters this past month.

Still, though, it was unbelievable, incredible, unreal. Snape had seemed one of those people who wouldn't quit something once they had joined it, and he had joined the Order by far. He'd kept secret after secret for them – indeed, sometimes more than more experienced members had. He'd been there, unhappy and unwilling, but doing it anyway. He'd been there, so stoically and for so long that his murderous instinct seemed – well, she didn't want to think about that.

Snape had been there for so long, with the Order for so long that they'd thought they'd known him. To them, he had been the unpleasant, bitter Order member, always there, never willing, but dead useful, a valuable asset. He hadn't liked them very much, of course, but it didn't seem like he would be emotionally cruel enough to kill – and, least of all, kill the strongest wizard on Earth.

But Tonks didn't know. After all, she had heard rumors that Snape had once been a Death Eater…. Now, she saw, it was clear that he was. Taking her mind off the matter, she shook her head and popped herself into a none-too-familiar figure – that spiteful Dolores Umbridge.

Everyone stared. They didn't know what to make of it – at least, that is, not until Tonks 'ahem'ed daintily, then contradicted that by snorting like a pig. They finished by bursting out laughing.

-------------------------------------------

The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, the siblings were discussing, the dragonman was entering the house, and the owls were tapping at the window.

Ron woke up groggily, his eyes still bleary. By the sounds of it, Harry and Hermione had already left downstairs and were currently talking with the others. He wouldn't have woken up at this time had it not been for the solid tapping at the window.

Ron rose sleepily and walked over to it, opening it so that the handsome tawny owl – one from Hogwarts judging by the seal on the rolls of parchment tied to its talon – could come in. This it did, hopping forward onto the sill and depositing its post gently into his hand. Ron watched as it flew off, its course true as an arrow's, back to Hogwarts.

There were three identical letters – one each for him, Harry, and Hermione – in addition to another, smaller roll of parchment. This one was, from the tidy emerald-ink scrawl below the wax Hogwarts seal, for Harry. Instinctively, he left the three other letters on the windowsill and opened his own.

He was shocked – and, somehow, not so shocked – at what he read.

-------------------------------------------

"What is it, ickle Ronniekins?" Fred asked, delicately wiping at his mouth with a napkin.

"What is it that made you come yelling down like that?" George was smiling. "I've seen girls screaming less than you, brother dearest."

Ron scowled, turning to his sister. "Ginny, did you get this?" he asked, holding up his letter. "I did, and it said—" his voice choked "—it said—"

"—Hogwarts isn't going to open next term." Ginny was grim. "Yeah, I got it."

A pause trickled by. Ron, standing there, suddenly remembered his brother and walked around her to sit by Charlie. He was going to stay at their house for a while now, until the wedding. Bill was at the Burrow as well, but Fleur would not come until a few days before the ceremony. Now, feeling the letter clenched tightly in his hand, Ron knew he had to do something.

"Are you all right, Ron?" asked Charlie, looking worriedly at him. "You've gone pale."

In response, Ron held up his letter.

"Let me see that…." Charlie took it, read it quickly and, when he handed it back to Ron, his grip was shaking along with his voice. "That's just horrible," he whispered, shaking his head sadly. "I – I mean, Dumbledore's death was–" He paused in thought, eventually compromising by saying, "Well, I figured that, even after Dumbledore's death they could still keep the school open."

"I guess they couldn't," Ron replied, looking blankly at the piece of parchment crushed in his palm.

-------------------------------------------

"What's all this unhappy chatter about?" Molly asked, glancing from Weasley to Potter to Weasley to Granger and back to Weasleys again. "Why is everyone so – so like this?"

"It's this," said Ron gravely, holding up a crumpled mess of a letter letter. "Here— I'll read it out to everyone."

"It's not good news, Mum." Charlie's eyes were wide as he pointed to the letter clasped tightly in Ron's hand. "It's— It's much worse than I thought."

"'_Dear Mr. R. Weasley_," Ron began, and everyone fell silent, listening to the words written on that plain, unassuming, if crushed, parchment, "'_we regret to inform you that Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry will not open again in September. It will remain closed for the entire 1997-1998 school year_. _It remains to be seen if it will open again come next school year_.'"

There was an outbreak of murmuring – outraged, shocked, unhappy, confused and curious, to name a few. Ron coughed, once more attracting everyone's attention, lifted the letter to his eyes, and resumed reading.

"'_Hogwarts will not be able to once more open its doors because, as you know, the Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, has passed away. The circumstances of his death occurred on school premises; even if we did decide to reopen Hogwarts for the oncoming term, we would succeed only in infuriating the Ministry of Magic. They, in turn, would have demanded us to close Hogwarts of their own accord. Therefore, after serious discussion, we have officially closed Hogwarts for the upcoming school year_.'" Ron sighed and pocketed the letter. "It's signed McGonagall, the Wizengamot, and Fudge."

"Dumbledore was Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, wasn't he?" asked Bill, frowning.

In the talk that ensued, Ron, feeling his sweaty palm staining the other letter clutched tightly in his hand, extended it. A bemused Harry relieved him of it and slowly began to split the seal.

"What is it, Ron?" He glanced at the parchment within, but couldn't identify who had written it. "Do you know?"

"It's from McGonagall, too." Ron's voice was hard. "Read it," he urged. "Read it to us."

Hermione, sitting at Harry's side with Ron standing by, nodded. "What does it say? I expect it's about the Horcrux hunt. You did tell her about it, didn't you?"

Harry nodded, slowly examining the loopy signature at the bottom of the page. It wasn't McGonagall's, but it was written in the same kind of ink. Without even having to look at in the full, Harry knew who had written it.

"Here goes nothing," he said, grinning faintly, and began to read the Transfiguration Professor's message.

"'_Potter—_

_I knew that, after Albus' death, you would be the one who will kill He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. It was clear to me, ever since you first asked me where Dumbledore so many years ago near the end of your first year right before you, Granger and Weasley took the jump into the third-floor corridor. Now, I know you're going to do it – you've matured, Potter, as has everyone else has in your year. I can't offer much advice for the killing of You-Know-Who in this letter for fear it may be intercepted, but I expect to see you at the wedding. Work hard and remember not to throw your life away killing You-Know-Who. You're a resourceful boy, Potter, and I know you can do it without killing yourself in the process._

_Best wishes, Harry_.'"

"Whose signature is that?" asked Ron, pointing to the neat round swirl below McGonagall's.

"I— I think that's Dumbledore's," replied Hermione cautiously.

"I—" Ron hesitated, not knowing what to say. Finally, he shook his head. "Fancy that," he said admirably, ignoring the odd signature, "McGonagall sending you a personal letter."

"She wanted to do it for me all this time." Harry silently tucked the roll of parchment away in his pocket. "It's like she said, isn't it? 'It was clear to me.'"

"She knew, Harry." Hermione's eyes were stuck on the letter shoved away in the pocket of Harry's jeans, but she didn't comment on Dumbledore's signature – which, they all knew, she was wondering about. "She knew it all along. After all, you did it when you were a baby."

"Love holds everything together," murmured Harry.

In silence, they stared together at the letter, wondering if life existed after death. Well, ghosts were alive (in a sense,) and, in another, so were others who had died.

Dumbledore was trying to speak to them.


	6. Too Many Insects

The next day, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were in Ron's room along with Hermione's ginger-furred, squashed-faced, bottle-brush-tailed, bandy-legged cat Crookshanks curled up at the foot of the bed, suspiciously eyeing the windowsill. They would have gone outside to enjoy the sunshine and play a little Quidditch with the others, but of course Hermione was a dreadful player and preferred to stay inside, reading her tattered and faded textbookRon had decided to stay with her, saying hastily that there was something he wanted to show Harry, though he'd been speaking a little too fast.

"Where'd you get the book, anyway?" he asked now, referring to Hermione's old _Hogwarts: A History _as he rose and began walking toward his bed.

"I got it from—"

"Ron, dear, we're going to Diagon Alley later today." The door cracked open and Molly's face appeared, smoothly (albeit unknowingly) cutting off Hermione's reply. "Do you mind coming?"

"As long as I can see Fred and George's shop again." Ron flipped through a Quidditch magazine, _The Quaffle Quarterly_, on his bed when he reached it"It's been ages since we've been there." He looked at Hermione as if waiting for her answer, but, her cheeks slightly pink, her eyes were occupied with going from the top of the page to the bottom at a breakneck pace.

"And you, Harry, Hermione?" Molly asked, watching Harry as he fed Hedwig, Pigwidgeon, and the family owl, Errol, by their cages on the windowsill. "Do you want to come as well?"

Harry smiled as he held an Owl Treat up to Errol's beak; the bundle of gray feathers snapped it up quickly. "Of course, Mrs. Weasley."

"That's fine, then." Molly withdrew from the door, closing it softly. "Get ready. We'll be leaving after lunch."

Ron listened to the receding steps of his mum as she busied herself down the hallway before turning to Harry. "You'll be pleased with what Fred and George have done with the shop, Harry. They've got loads of blokes working for them now and the place is huge. They even managed to buy off Zonko's." He appeared to have forgotten his earlier question to Hermione, and she said nothing.

"Zonko's? It closed the last time we saw it, wasn't it?"

"Of course it was," Ron answered knowledgeably as his eyes pursued a column titled 'How to Keep Your Bludg in High-Quality Condition.' "But Fred and George managed to track down the owner – don't ask me how they did it, but they did, somehow – and bought the chain of Zonko's stores in Great Britain. That isn't saying much – one in Hogsmeade, a new one that was built after fifth year in Diagon Alley, and another two in Marlborough and Edinburgh, but still." He shrugged, turning the page. "They're getting famous, but it still beats me how they can thrive with the threat of You-Know-Who at hand and all that."

"What's that, Ron?" asked Harry, stroking Hedwig's feathers. "_The Quaffle Quarterly_?"

"Yeah. It's a Quidditch magazine that started a few years back, before we started fourth year." Ron perused a full-page article entitled 'Broomstick Enchantment: The Know-Hows to Prevent it.' "It's still going pretty well. Want to have a go with it?"

"All right." Taking the magazine from Ron, Harry flipped through it, seeing nothing of interest until he came to farther on in the magazine, past the hundredth page. He glanced at it uneasily, reading the bright red title.

'Harry Potter: World-Saver or Quidditch Hero?', by Ainsley Claybrook

Ron jerked his head in Hermione's direction. "See, mate? I knew you were going to become more famous than you already are someday," he whispered, his voice barely audible, with a grin.

As an afterthought, Ron shrugged. "Don't worry about me, Harry. I'll become famous too someday, once I help you blast You-Know-Who out of the picture." He stopped, realizing the unease on Harry's face. "Are you all right?"

"I'm all right, but they didn't ask me." Harry dropped to the bed that had been pushed haphazardly into the room, not far from Ron's. "I—Look at all this slander they wrote about me."

"It isn't slander," said Ron wisely, running his eyes down the page. "See, Harry? It's praise."

"What are you talking about?" Hermione asked, looking at them from over the top of _Hogwarts: A History. _Harry opened his mouth to tell her the truth, but Ron nudged him in the elbow. He simply replied, "Ron's Quidditch magazine."

Ron grinned at Harry. "Read it," he murmured.

'Harry Potter, world-renown teenager who's defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named no less than four times, is a boy of many mysteries. One of the more well-known facts about this remarkable sixteen year-old is that he is an excellent Quidditch player; he is, in fact. the current Gryffindor Seeker and Quidditch captain at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. His team has won the Quidditch Cup three times in a row with his help, saving Gryffindor from a long line of defeats from their rival House, Slytherin. But Potter is, of course, the only human ever to have defeated You-Know-Who. No other has ever done this, which leads to the question: will Potter become a Quidditch player in the world tournament – after all, the Quidditch World Cup will probably hold another match before long, even though they claimed that their four hundred and twenty-second, back in 1994, would be their last – or will he succumb to fighting the forces of evil and become an Auror?

No one knows the answer to this question, save perhaps Potter himself – and, even then, it's quite possible that he hasn't decided yet. However, experts' studies have shown that, before long, Potter will be on his way to defeat You-Know-Who. Afterward, no one is sure. On the one hand, he may become an Auror; on the other, he may become a professional Quidditch player. In both cases experts are sure he will go far – he has considerable talent on the pitch and in the grand scope of saving human lives.

If, however, Potter does decide to become a Quidditch player, he is sure to become an official Seeker, probably from his homeland – Great Britain, though with thirteen teams to choose from, a person can wonder. "We'll sure he'll go far," said Bromley Yelverton, an Eye for Quidditch Talent, from the Ministry of Magic's Department of Magical Games and Sports. "He's was a Quidditch player since his first year, an honor that has otherwise not been bestowed on anyone of that age for a century. He's one of Hogwarts' greatest Seekers of this era, with only a few lost games under his belt. And, more importantly, he's got more than the skill: he's got the will to move on, the will to change, the will to make himself a better player. We've observed this kid, and I have no doubt in saying that he's determined to become a better Seeker than he already is."

Yelverton's words are, of course, truth; Potter is a fighter, through and through. While this can lead to success on the Quidditch pitch, another question haunts its place: what if he decides to become an Auror? As previously explained, Potter obviously has courage, determination, perseverance and cleverness – all qualities required for becoming an Auror. Considering his past, this occupation seems made for Potter; he would not only excel, but he would also convince others to follow in his footsteps. One can imagine life in ten years from now; wizarding newspaper headlines all over the world would sport flashing headlines such as 'Inspired by Harry Potter, Beaters Plays with Montrose Magpies' and 'Young Female, Inspired by Harry Potter, Becomes World-Class Auror.'

Whichever way he chooses however, the future seems bright for Potter. He's young, sharp, determined, brave, and shows all the high-class Quidditch skills of Ireland World Cup Seeker Aidan Lynch at the spanking young age of almost seventeen. He's quick on the pitch and with the Dark wizards, and the wizarding world will applaud him on whichever path he decides to follow. And who knows? Perhaps Potter will become a famed Auror who plays World Cup Quidditch on his free time. It's all in his hands, but one thing's for sure: the future is friendly when in regards to Harry Potter.'

Harry, feeling genuinely, completely happy for the first time in days, lowered the newspaper from his eyes and looked up at Ron. His gangly best friend grinned, taking the magazine to seek out any other information on Harry the _Quaffle Quarterly _had to offer.

"Look, Harry, it's a picture of you," he said, pointing to a blown-up, animated wizarding snapshot of Harry in action. He recognized it from the last Quidditch game he'd played, the Gryffindor/Hufflepuff match back during the past March. It depicted him in action, flying in action, hand extended to grab the glittering Golden Snitch hovering above his head. It was an outstanding shot, and Harry wondered absently on it as Ron took the magazine away from under his nose.

"Wonder who took that shot?" Harry stood, stretching. He watched the sun, burning and bright at its highest point in the sky, not knowing what to think. He didn't like the fact that someone had taken a picture of him without his knowing, but he knew it hadn't been a malevolent gesture. "It's a great shot."

"Colin Creevey." Ron dropped down onto the edge of his bed, flipping slowly through the _Quaffle Quarterly. _"Hermione told me. Did you know?" he added with a chuckle. "He's with Tracey Davis now."

"The Hufflepuff in our year?" Harry asked, looking out at the sun-tinged landscape behind the window. "I don't know her, but I heard she's decent."

"So have I." Ron shrugged. "At any rate, it was Ginny who told me."

Ron brightened. "Yeah! That's right! I forgot!"

"Forgot what?" Harry wondered.

Ron scurried out of sight, eyes lighting up, and returned to Harry's side a few moments later, just as Hermione was setting her book neatly on the bed and coming over to their side. Harry, who knew Ron had merely plunged his arm beside the pillow on his bed in search of the package, looked at it critically as his friend brought it to the light.

"Look, Harry, Hermione." Voice hushed, he slowly ripped off the white tissue paper. "Take a look at this." Throwing the tissue paper carelessly onto his bed, he held the durable cardboard box up so that the outer sunlight streamed down onto it. "Look what they bought for me – a—"

"—a Dark Wizard Destruction Kit?" Hermione relieved Ron of the package, eyeballing it skeptically. "I've heard of these. I don't know if they really work or not, though…."

As if in agreement, Crookshanks looked up at them from the foot of the bed and mewed loudly.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Give it up, Hermione," he groaned, walking back to his bed and fishing also from behind his pillow two identical black red-lined boxes. He distributed them to Harry and Hermione before snatching back his own. "Look, they were even a recommended buy in _The Daily Prophet_."

"Yes, I suppose," Hermione replied uncertainly, eyes focused on the box as she attempted to pull open one of its silver clasps. "But I don't know… I've never trusted Hambard and Loveney Wizarding Matierals – a few of the books I read said their products aren't very good…."

"Look at it this way, Hermione." Harry, still seated on Ron's bed, extracted from his box a heavy, leather-bound, intricately illustrated tome. "There's a book in it, too."

"Well, I don't know…" Hermione hesitated, perching herself on the other end of the bed as she slowly lifted the cover from her box of treats. "It's called…_Incantations and Potions That Can Save Your Life_, by Carling Plimmswood. It seems all right," she went on, leafing half-heartedly through it, "but I plan to read it before I make any assumptions."

"Well, at the least, I wager it'll teach us a new spell or two." Ron was sifting through the contents of his own Dark Wizard Destruction Kit. "Whoa, look at all these things – enchanted hats and gloves, potion ingredients, a leaflet on wizarding safety—" he riffled through this before dropping it back into the box "—malevolent sweets, even a few Famous Wizard Cards. There's more," he added, depositing the contents back inside the box and placing it on his lap. "I don't know what, but I'm sure there are more." He dug in again for a while, fist closing around the Chocolate Frog Card his hand resurfaced with. "'Nicolas Flamel.' This card is supposed to be rare." He scrutinized it under the bright noon-light pouring through the window. "But I already have three of it."

"Maybe we should start trading them again," Harry suggested with a laugh, glancing at his own. "Ron, do you know who Leonard Jewkes is?"

"Yeah. He created the Silver Arrow broom line – remember the one Hooch was rattling on and on about way back in second year?" He held his card up to the light, watching it catch the light and dazzle brightly. "I don't have that one. Want to trade?"

The transaction was quickly done, with the boys swapping each of their new Chocolate Frog Cards in turn. Hermione scoffed, watching the two of them trade cards. "Oh, please," she said impatiently, fingering through her own small collection of Andros the Invincible, Glover Hipworth, and Wilfrid Elhprick. "Only one of these has anything to do with the Dark Arts, and the most he did is produce the world's largest Patronus. It's not going to teach us how he did it, now is it?"

"You have Andros the Invincible?" Ron looked regretfully at his new, shiny, platinum edition of Daisy Dodderidge. "A trade, Hermione?"

"Just take them all," she replied disgustedly, pushing all three of them toward Ron. "Take 'em all and feast your eyes."

"You're the greatest, Hermione!" crowed Ron excitedly, packing his six new cards away into his Dark Wizard Destruction Kit. "Thanks!"

Hermione rolled her eyes. Boys.

Come to think of it, at least he knew who Andros the Invincible was. And, not to mention, maybe they were trying to return, if briefly, to older, happier times.

Come to think of it, maybe Ron's emotional range _was _bigger than a teaspoon.

-------------------------------------------------------

It was later that day, and Mrs. Weasley was occupying herself doing some last-minute around-the-house cleaning, so Hermione had decided to band together with Harry, Ron and Ginny to practice the spells mentioned in their Dark Wizard Destruction Kit in the Burrow's large front yard. She wanted to try out a few of the indicated spells and practice them before the large group headed for Diagon Alley – "you're all in need of new dress robes, too," Mrs. Weasey had told them, "for Bill's wedding. You won't need your Hogwarts things, so I guess you're free to wander and shop about as you please."

"Let's see what's in here now," Hermione began, opening the book that had come concealed in the package. Purposefully, she had made Ginny share Harry's, and the comfortable, pleasant sound of pages riffling came to her ears. With a smile, she flipped absently through it, not finding anything of interest.

"We've known all of these things since fourth year," she declared impatiently as the book's leaves passed her fingers. "And if not we learned them from the DA."

"Maybe we should try looking further in." Ron held the book up, curbing it back in just time so that her hands landed on the second-to-last page. "Look at this: how to make your opponent too weak to fight for hours on end."

"Easy: let them smell Ron's armpits," Ginny, standing by Harry's shoulder, giggled. "Very easy to knock them out with that stench."

Hermione sifted through her book till she found the page. "I'm not sure," she said cautiously, examining the written spell, tips and tricks under the light. "It seems difficult, and, besides, we already know the Stunning Spell."

"Hermione, can't you see? We're finished with sixth year, and there won't be a seventh year at Hogwarts. Most of the time we'll be off fighting You-Know-Who, so _this _is our seventh year. We've got to learn a lot more to defeat Voldemort, even if it seems like we already know it." Harry turned to Ginny. "We'll teach you everything we've learned last year, Gin."

Ginny nodded. "Yeah…. Anything, and I mean _anything_, might end up saving our lives someday, Hermione."

"Besides, I think we're capable enough." Harry looked impatiently at the page, feeling a surge of a strong desire to do what he was destined to do. "Don't you, Hermione?"

"I guess so," agreed Hermione reluctantly. She wordlessly waved her wand and insects immediately began everywhere into view – flowing down the trees, streaming down the wall, swarming toward them on the grass. "It'll save us time if we do it on insects instead of each other, so we won't have to waste time waiting for each other to get our strength back." Ron, she saw, had gone noticeably whiter and was backing away as fast as his legs could carry him. Rolling her eyes, she called to him, "Ron! Don't run. These are for practicing."

"There are no spiders here," Ginny reasoned practically, annoyed. "Trust me, Ron. They don't live in the grass."

Ron gulped visibly at the mention of the word 'spiders'. He was standing a distance away, thrusting his wand forward, watching as a fly buzzed about his head and a few ants marched in a line on the ground. "Well, at least we're not in Grimmauld Place. It was…scary there."

"Yeah, and the insect specimens over there were of a much higher quality." Fred had Apparated along with George and was currently poking his head onto Ron's shoulder to watch the wall of insects. "These ones I'm not so sure about."

"The spider eggs aren't even decent." George, his tone sensible, watched as Hermione waved her wand with a mutter of '_Infirme_!' Almost instantaneously, an ant collapsed to its knobbly legs on the grass. "No, it simply won't do."

"There are spiders here?" Ron was panicked. "There—There are?!"

"Yes, but only in summer, dear Ronald." George ran a hand smoothly through his hair. "Isn't that right, Gred?"

"It is, Forge." Fred smiled, turning away from his younger brother. "Right now, if you look carefully, the only thing you'll find is spiders crawling all over the grass right now."

Ron looked even more horrified.

"Our work here is done." Fred and George smirked as they left, their words in unison indicating that the act was practiced. "We'll see you guys – that is, if Ron ever manages to finish."

"By the way, spiders eggs can be found hidden in leaves," Hermione called out. "They're orb weaver spiders, to be exact, but there are more different kinds."

"Excellent. We'll remember that!" the twins replied gaily together as they set out back to the Burrow.

Luckily, the four managed to work hard on the spell for almost an hour and a half before Mrs. Weasley dropped by to tell them that it was time to leave. Hermione, severely annoyed with Ron's fear of spiders yet happy that they had made progress, watched the disgusted, repulsive expression on his mum's face as she noticed the large amount of insects adorning the ground.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Weasley, Crookshanks will clean it up," she said, tactfully. He's with us." As if he had heard her very words, Crookshanks appeared at her feet (though if he'd been with them during training, no one knew) and eagerly bounded onto the scene. He started gobbling up the insects, which were still too weak to move, wolfishly and instantly. "This wastes less time," she explained.

"Well, as long as they won't bite me." Mrs. Weasley's eyes shrunk to their regular size as the ginger cat swallowed the first beetle. "I— I never knew there were so many around here, is all…."

"We put them there, Mum, for an experiment last night," explained Fred hastily, Apparating at Mrs. Weasley's shoulder. "We'll—"

The furious woman turned on them, her anger reflex sharper than ever. "WHAT DID YOU TWO THINK YOU WERE DOING, ADDING MORE INSECTS ON THE LAWN THAN THERE ALREADY WERE?—"

Hermione tuned around as Mrs. Weasley went on shouting at her sons, but she was smiling.

It served them right.


	7. Return to Diagon Alley

Arthur Weasley blinked, staring at his map of Diagon Alley. Thanks to the promotion he'd earned himself last year, his family now had enough money to split up and purchase what they wanted, as opposed to what they needed this time around. Besides, they didn't technically need to buy much without Hogwarts the simple thought made him sigh inwardly – mostly dress robes and assorted paraphernalia for the wedding.

"This is it, you lot," he told them, lowering the map from his eyes. He'd never needed it before, but Fred and George had been experimenting with enchanted maps and had ended up with several dozen of them. (As a result, the entire group now sported maps, frayed and slightly torn – 'To make them look used', to quote George.) "We all split up here." He pocketed his map and looked at each of them in turn. "With no Hogwarts…." He stopped, not finding the words to go on, so he shrugged feebly, remembering the great school. "You're free to do as you please, as long as you come back here in an hour and a half."

The group started to thin out, its residents dispersing, but Arthur called out to two at the rear. "Harry? Hermione? Could you come?"

"What is it, Mr. Weasley?" Harry and Hermione appeared at his side, while Ron looked curiously on.

Arthur grinned and rubbed his hands together. "Tell me everything you know about Muggle elrekicity."

The teenagers exchanged a smile and did as requested. Ron, shaking his head, waited impatiently by his friends and his Muggle-crazy father.

----------------------------------------------

Before long, though, the group had split up. Harry, Ron and Hermione were busy walking through Diagon Alley, noticing at the number of shops that had been boarded up with extreme sadness, bitter reminders of days long gone. They stopped before Ollivander's, the wand shop. It had been closed since last summer, and by now a huge red 'X' had been scrawled onto the window, extending from the sill to the edges.

Ron looked hesitantly through the window, past the graffiti, but all that came to his eyes was darkness. "Wonder where Ollivander went…?" he mused, trying to scrutinize the darkness. "Did he hide, did he escape, or did he…?"

He didn't finish the question; the rest was clear in their minds. They stared unhappily at the huge 'X'; Hermione reached for her wand to attempt magicking it.

"It won't come off," she declared before waving her wand, once more uttering '_Scourgify_.' "It's been enchanted, I'd say. With a Paint-Hardening Charm, probably."

"'Paint-Hardening Charm?'" Ron looked incredulously at Hermione. "How'd you know this stuff?"

"Because, Ron, I read and do research," she replied, annoyed. She examined the window carefully, observing it under a practiced eye. "There's no way we could see inside; even without all that paint, it's dark as night in there."

"All the more reason to kill Voldemort," said Harry quietly. "The things he's been doing to people – well, they're just—despicable."

"Harry, how many times do I have to tell you?" Ron sounded shocked, annoyed, frightened. "Don't—say—the—name."

"Don't be silly, Ron." Hermione pulled out her, walking along with Harry as he moved away and set for the line of shops down the horizon. "We're working to destroy him, for Merlin's sake. We're going to end up seeing him for once in our lives before Harry kills him. We're going to have to get used to saying the name."

But Ron was shaking his head as they left Ollivander's and headed toward the cluster of other shops, the first of which was Madame Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. "Ruddy name," he grunted. "Ruddy name. Why didn't wizards say it in the first place? It was the name You-Know-Who chose for himself, wasn't it?"

It was a question none of them would – or could – answer.

A short while later, they had walked past the thick group of shops – most of which were now closed, as they'd seen with sadness – and had stopped at the local pub, the Leaky CauldronThey were conversing with its wizened, toothless owner, a man named Tom. He'd invited them into the empty inn, ignoring their comments that he had customers to tend to; both for polite this and because they felt they had no choice, they accepted the invitation and followed him through the door.

"It's nothing, honestly," Tom told them in response to their curious glances. "I mean, no one's been coming along anyway, if you see when I mean – I could use the company."

"Well, thanks." Hermione hesitated before resuming. "We appreciate it."

"What happens when the shops close?" asked Ron as Tom ushered them toward a secluded table near the back of the inn, already decked out with four tall glasses and a vase topped with flowers – a ploy to bring in more customers, perhaps. "There are more than there were last summer – do they just mysteriously close, or…?"

"Sometimes the owners are dragged off, too," the older man replied knowledgeably, voice dropping. "It's rare, but it does happen…. Sometimes, if you look, you can see a group of men – bad man with no compassion, no doubt – taking them away from their own shops and selling their merchandise."

They shuddered.

"Er – they're not really Death Eaters, are they?" Ron asked tentatively. "Because, if they are, shouldn't someone be stopping them?"

"They're not, but, once a shop in Diagon Alley closes, it's required for the owners' things to be sold. At any rate…That's not the only reason. Sometimes they just go bankrupt, with no customers coming in and bringing them money." Tom was going on as if he knew what he was about, but, they detected from his tone, he didn't like it any more than they did. "Me, I own the only inn in Diagon Alley, so I'm lucky – lucky enough to stay in business, that is, because, if you'll notice, no one else is here." He paused, as if struggling with the words. "See, folk have just stopped coming to Diagon Alley. It's too dangerous here, what with the chance that Death Eaters will just come over one day and take everyone away. Everyone's being forced to close shop."

"Any other ways?" Hermione asked quietly. She wanted to know more, both for the hunt and personal interest. Oh, and perhaps something else, too…. She didn't want them to run out of business, after all. "Are— Are the owners being killed?"

Tom shrugged. "You know, Ollivander and Florean just disappeared, but some have been just leaving, scared because of the disappearances, and their shops are close as well." Darkly, he added, "For all we know, they might be under the Imperius Curse even as we speak."

Harry uncomfortably shifted his weight from one foot to the other as they neared the table and sat.

"Some, like Madame Malkin, are leaving because they want to. She told me the day before she closed shop – ah, let's see, about a week ago—"

"That long ago?" exclaimed Hermione, and Tom nodded grimly.

"Yes," he answered, looking nervously back at the closed and tightly shut doorway. "Before she left, we had a talk over sherry. She told me she was too scared to keep up shop in times like these, and she'd probably be losing money from the folk who don't need new robes because Hogwarts is closed." He hesitated. "We…. We all know that it's going to be closed; letters were owled to us." He shook his head sadly. "She said she would go back home and put an advertisement in the _Daily Prophet_, along with an order form. That's how she'll be making her business from now on."

The three fell silent, mulling over his words.

"Mind, it's only temporary." Tom glanced at the sparse crowd of customers traversing Diagon Alley outside the window. "As soon as You-Know-Who is gone…. As soon as he's gone – as soon as someone kills him, everyone will come flooding back."

"It would take ages to repair the damage, though," Hermione pointed out. "So many people have closed their shops and left, it'll probably take quite a while to bring everything back the way it was. And that's say nothing of all of the defacing that's been happening to the property."

Tom was quiet for a few moments. "No, I don't think so," he said slowly, thoughtfully. "Most everyone is around here somewhere, probably, and the shopkeeps know each other. We'll be able to help each other out to make things become the way they used to be. It shouldn't take as long as it seems."

"What about Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes?" asked Ron keenly. "Are they doing well?"

"They your brothers?" Tom quested, looking down at Ron. "I'm pretty sure they are. I remember seeing you all here 'bout three, four years ago. And you look like them."

"Er—yeah, they are." Ron blinked. "So, how are they doing?"

Tom shook his head and laughed wheezily. "They're doing well, all right, and that's putting it lightly. "'Smatter of fact, I've never seen any other shop's merchandise fly off the shelves like theirs. Selling like hotcakes, they are, an' before long Zonko's'll be theirs. I hear they've bought it already."

"They did." Ron was grinning. "You've ever been there?"

Tom grinned, but instead of answering Ron, he disappeared from the chair he was sitting on, heading toward the counter. Harry and Hermione exchanged confused looks, but Ron's eyes were glowing in anticipation. He didn't know what Tom had left to do, but he was hopeful.

"'Course I did," declared Tom, after returning about a minute later. "Look here. Their shop's where I got this." Proudly, he lifted up a deck of Exploding Snap cards whose backs were painted with a design of roaring flames, tightly pressed against his palm. "You can play with these, lad," – he clapped a hand on Ron's shoulder – "and you won't get hurt – that is, unless you touch their backs." He grinned again, an odd sight with a toothless mouth such as his, before smacking them down to the table. "And if you lose, then guess what happens."

Ron looked intently at the cards as he, Harry and Hermione clustered around them. "Fred and George sold these to you?" he asked, wondering what the suits could possibly look like acts were anything to go by. "They don't seem to—er—be the sort of thing they normally make."

"They were mistakes," Tom informed Ron, motioning for the trio to move away so that he could disappear again. "They were experimenting in the back when I came to visit their shop – merely to look around, you understand – they said I could have them for all the times they've stayed under my roof." He tapped the wall, his voice growing fainter as he walked quickly toward the counter. "They sell their mistakes, too, I guess, because I've seen others with them. He stopped suddenly, halfway toward the counter. "Do you want to play, or…?"

"No, it's fine," Hermione told them, and the sound of his receding footsteps once more filled their ears. Turning to Ron, she gave him an odd look. "Ron, do you realize how much money Fred and George must have earned by now? Hundreds upon hundreds of Galleons, and they made it all by disobeying your mum."

"I think it's more in the thousands, and, besides, Mum's happy too." Ron moved away from the door as Tom returned, carrying a tray loaded with glasses and a plate of crumpets. "She didn't like what they were doing back with their order forms back in the _Prophet _years back, but they earned more money than we've ever dreamed of in the end." Ron shrugged, a reminiscent smile on his face. "To be honest, they're earning more than Dad."

Seconds later, Tom said the tray on the table, but he was in focus on them; instead, he was looking out the window. "What time is it?"

Confused, Harry checked his watch. "It's one-thirty."

Tom smiled toothlessly, bringing his gaze down from the horizon. "Thanks. I just wanted to know." He paused. "If folk see that the inn is still open, they might come in and bring in more business. You know, the afternoon is the busiest time of day in Diagon Alley."

They resumed talking about Fred and George's store. "How many times have you been there?" asked Hermione. "We've only been there twice – once last year and once earlier today."

Tom shrugged. "Only a few times, but I know a good shop when I see one." He smiled, looking fondly at the cupboard behind the counter from where he'd taken the deck of cards. "Gave me a discount, your brothers did."

"They gave us one, too." Ron's smile turned into a scowl. "I mean, being their brother, I wanted free, but they said they needed the money. But it's not fair, because we share the same money – well, sort of."

Tom hid a chuckle and instead directed his gaze toward the door. Getting up, he strode over to it, saying, "Who's knocking?"

And knocking was indeed being sounded the other side of the door. Add knocking was too, so loud that ofa fist of no ordinary size could be banging at it.

"It's Hagrid!" exclaimed Harry before the door was open. Within seconds, he, Ron and Hermione were off and running to greet the Hogwarts gamekeeper as he entered the Leaky Cauldron. "Hi, Hagrid!"

"Didn' expec' ter see yeh here." The big man greeted them warmly as he entered, beetle-black eyes glinting in happiness. "How've yeh been?"

"All right, Hagrid." Ron was somber. "Did you—Did you get the—?"

"Yeah, I got the letter." Hagrid walked alongside the trio toward the table, pulling himself a chair at one end once they reached it. He shook his head angrily, voice rough. "Closin' Hogwarts? What did the Ministry gents think they were doin', closin' Hogwarts?" His outburst subsided as he looked fondly at Harry. "An' yer goin' ter get 'im, aren' yeh, Harry? Yer goin' to kill 'im, aren' yeh?"

Harry nodded slowly, not wondering how Hagrid had known. "Yes, Hagrid. I'm going to kill Voldemort."

Hagrid shuddered. "All righ', Harry, yeh'd better do tha', but don' say the name. It's— Jus' call 'im You-Know-Who."

"A good afternoon to you, Hagrid." To pulled out a chair and sat, placing a plate laden with crumpets beside the first. "How are you?"

"Not too bad, Tom." Hagrid reached toward the crumpets, then withdrew his hand as if deciding against it. "Did yeh get the letter?"

Confusion appeared on the wizened innkeeper's face, to be shortly replaced with a flicker of understanding. "Oh, that letter. I'll take that you mean the one from Hogwarts?" He shook his head. "Terrible, terrible thing. I went there myself, you know, way back in the day, in—" he calculated on his fingers "—well, I forget what year it was, but it was a very long while ago. Anyhow, Hogwarts was like a second home to me. Even with Dumbledore gone, it's still one of the safest, most secure places on the continent." He shook his head again, sighing profoundly. "And as for Albus…. Poor old man. He always did great, great things – I never suspected he'd die in my lifetime – or ever, for that matter…."

Hagrid shook his head, his expression clouding with sorrow. "I know, Tom, I know the pain yer feelin'. He always seemed…so, untouchable, yeh know? Like he'd never die. Not ever…."

"What happened to his phoenix?" prompted Tom.

"He flew away," Ron interjected, and Tom looked up with a start. "He flew away, and somehow we know he's not coming back. He's gone on to a better place." His voice was quiet, tinged with sadness, but wise. For all he was worth, Ron could be a very wise person at times.

"Yeah. We saw him leave." Harry was quiet, not pressing it, but nonetheless stabbed with the same pain they were all feeling as his hand strayed toward the fake Horcruxes in his pocket, one of his few physical reminders of Dumbledore. "He…He flew away…. He's gone."

"Well, I'm still stayin'." Hagrid wiped his eyes sadly, but his voice was stout, stoic, strong. "I mean, I don' care what anyone says, but Hogwarts is my home. I'm not jus' gonna leave it. An' I'll be there when it opens again."

Tom nodded slowly. "Yes, Hagrid, we'll be there – if we're not killed first… It'll take quite some time to clear things up between us and the Ministry after He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is gone for good, but, after he's gone, the only crisis will be a political one…. And it's always survived through those days, that school has…."

Hagrid gave a start, as though he hadn't realized they'd been standing before Diagon Alley's only inn in his reminiscing – then again, he probably hadn't. Looking down at Ron, Harry, and Hermione, who were looking up at him, their eyes misted in sadness, he nodded. "Yeah…. Think I will, if yeh three don' mind…"

"Yes, Hagrid," replied Hermione. "We'll have Butterbeer."

Harry listened distractedly as Ron and Hermione's spoke with Hagrid while Tom went to go get the drinks. They were telling him about their mission, their mission to hunt down the Horcruxes and kill Voldemort. Harry wasn't listening; under normal circumstances, he would've joined in the conversation, but not even seeing Hagrid again could rouse him from his thoughts. Instead, he pulled something out of his pocket, one of Fawkes' scarlet feathers, the one that had come with Dumbledore's portrait. Silently, he stood staring, his mind away, remembering….

"What'cher got there, Harry?"


	8. Without Remorse

Harry gave a start; he hadn't realized that, lost in thought, the others were staring at him. He continued to gaze down at the phoenix feather before he, with an abrupt, sudden movement, held it up to the light.

"It's…" He took a deep breath. He didn't want to lie too Hagrid, but it was too dangerous and still would have been had Tom not been getting the Butterbeer. He had no choice. "It's one of Fawkes' feathers. Ron and Hermione found it."

Well, it wasn't an exact lie, Harry comforted himself as he handed the red feather over to Hagrid for examination. They had indeed found it, but he felt that he didn't need to mention the portrait of the late Headmaster. Watching as the part-giant turned it slowly over in his huge hands, Harry suddenly, unexpectedly asked, "Hagrid, what are you going to do at Hogwarts if it's closed?"

"Well, live at my hut, o' course, Harry," said Hagrid, sliding the phoenix feather across the table back toward him. "There's plenty o' food to be found in the forest if a person knows where it's to be found, an' I'm still gamekeeper. I…. I dunno, but I can protec' Hogwarts if need be. An'…well… Students might still come along, wantin' me to teach 'em, which is what I would do." He paused, eyes locked on the phoenix feather as Harry returned it to his pocket. "Harry…. Do yeh know…." He hesitated, apparently not knowing what to say. "One o' those is in yer wand, Harry. They're magical thin's, phoenix feathers…. Almost as magical as the phoenixes themselves…. Keep it. I dunno what it can do, but, mark my words, yeh'll find out."

Harry's discomfort was expelled briefly as Tom reappeared, baring a tray loaded with three bottles of Butterbeer, a bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey, and a plate of crumpets. "Here you go," Tom announced, placing the tray on the table and taking a seat before them. "It's just what you asked for, Hagrid."

Hagrid nodded and dug deep into the pockets of his moleskin overcoat, causing several things to flood onto the table: scribbled notes on parchment, a shrunken key no bigger than an ant, moldy Muggle chips, and a wish bone that had been scrubbed clean and etched in dark paint. Tom frowned slightly at the mess, but shook his head as Hagrid pushed a small pile of Sickles and Knuts toward him. "Here, Tom. Payment."

"No, take it for free." Tom shook his head and gestured impatiently to the money. "A friend is a friend, and, especially in these pain-stricken, times we have to stick together."

"All righ'," replied Hagrid, confused. "If you don' min', then…"

He put away his belongings and before long was reaching for the bottle of Firewhiskey. Hermione gave him a reproachful look; he muttered, "Yeah, yer right," and instead poured himself a glass of Butterbeer.

Before long, the five of them were talking. Tom, whose own glass of Gillywater was clutched in one hand, seemed keen for guests, as if no one had come to the Leaky Cauldron in quite a while.

"Yeah, no one's come since this morning, so it's getting lonely," he replied when Ron wanted to know. "I mean, the place's ruined, you know…. Most of the shops are closed, all boarded up, an' by now everyone knows Hogwarts isn't going to reopen, even if they didn't get the letter…." He shook his head sadly, sipping at the Gillywater. "You should have seen everyone a few nights ago – owls flying everywhere when the letters were delivered, having to take cover; there were so many of them that they had to hide from the Muggles on the other side of Diagon Alley…. A sad sight." He seemed to brighten suddenly, looking up at Hagrid. "So…Hagrid…. Have you seen Madame Maxime in a while?"

Hagrid gave a start; he hadn't been expecting that. Thinking slowly and successfully remembering that he had, once upon a drunken night, told Tom (among others, though he couldn't for the life of him understand how he remembered that) his feelings for her, he stroked his beard thoughtfully, feeling the blood come rushing to his face but plunging on nevertheless. "No…. We were plannin' to go out together – find some more o' our giant kin, yeh see, later on in the year…. Grawpy's still in the Forest; he can take care o' himself now, but he'll need some new friends once in a while. We wanted to help more, especially since most giants ten' to kill each other after a while." He smiled fondly, remembering his half-brother. "if But we can make 'em change, make 'em become better. We can do that." Hearing the eager note sound in his voice, he grinned openly. "Yeah…. I can still remember us plannin' it together."

"And then?" Tactfully, knowing he was in a reminiscent moment but not wanting to hurt Hagrid's feelings, Tom popped the question at exactly the right moment.

"An' then… An' then Hogwarts had to close. I sen' Olympe a letter, an' she'll be seein' me again before long; we're goin' to go on anyway…." Hagrid remembered, and that only served to make his will stronger than ever. "Yeah, we're gonna have a gran' ol' time together, come November…."

Tom thought about it, slightly quizzical. He understood that Madame Maxime would be able to come meet Hagrid if he would be staying in his hut on the Hogwarts grounds, though he did not know how she would cross the continent from France to Scotland and leave her school in possible jeopardy. Finally, it came to him; eyes widening, he focused them deeply on Hagrid's friendly beetle-black ones. "Is…Is Beauxbatons still open?"

"I dunno, come to think o' it." Hagrid shifted uncomfortably, comprehending. It was true…. Olympe had told him that she would be coming along by sometime in late fall, but she hadn't mentioned France's biggest wizarding school. She had seemed happy when she had owled him, but…. But, still…. He just didn't know. "I…. I dunno, an' I…. I don' know 'bout Durmstrang either…"

Hermione suddenly gave a start. Eyes wide, she blurted out, "Er…. Hagrid, about that – Durmstrang isn't going to open again in the fall – Voldemort's at large there, too, you know…" Though her words were coming out easily, they were coming out even faster than normal and her motions were touchy, on edge, jumpy. "I— I learned it from the _Daily Prophet… _It's all over the newspaper, see… Durmstrang's new Headmaster is—well—" she took a breath "—is a man named Vadim Sidorov, but he's obviously not as – er – great a man as Dumbledore was…." She shook her head, her words still pouring out of her at an incredible speed. "Obviously, the Russian Minister for Magic simply decreed that the school be closed because of that, but I'd wager that he said that for the same reason Hogwarts is closed – because Voldemort is at large. I don't know about Beauxbatons, but I have a feeling that it's going to close come September as well…."

"I shoulda figured as much," grunted Hagrid. "What's goin' to happen to the students?"

"There was nothing about that in the letter McGonagall sent us," Harry pointed out. "Actually, I have a feeling they're going to leave us to do as we please, with no lots changed, but I…." He shook his head. "Well, I guess we have things to do over the course of the year."

Hagrid stared at him, having a feeling he knew about what Harry was talking. "Yeah…. It's importan', isn' it, Harry?" When a shocked Harry looked up, he winked cheerily. "Yeah, Harry, I know how great a feelin' it is, the feelin' that yeh know yer gonna change the world, somehow…. I knew yeh'd do great things, an' tha' article in the _Quaffle _was an added bonus…"

Hermione was suspicious. "What article?" she asked, looking suspiciously at Harry and Ron. "What article is Hagrid talking about? And what's the _Quaffle_?"

Ron grinned at her, clapping Harry on the back. "See, Hermione, there's an article about Harry in this Quidditch magazine called _Quarterly Quaffle…_ It says how great he is, both at Quidditch and at Defense Against the Dark Arts, y'know?"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Hermione burst out, teeth gritted as though – and she clearly didn't – agree with what Ron was saying – and was trying to fight herself over it. "Why—didn't-you—tell—me?"

"Leave it, Hermione," Ron assured her, patting her shoulder with a grin. "Harry's used to this. Heck, he wanted it. He's happy with the way things are."

"Yeah, I think I can handle it," Harry added, feeling genuinely, completely happy for the first time in days.

----------------------------------------------

"Wonder how Hagrid knew about that article?" Harry pondered as the group trooped back from the Leaky Cauldron to the slightly busier, more occupied part of Diagon Alley. They caught sight of a group milling eagerly around a familiar shop. "Does he read that magazine?"

At this point, Ron coughed guiltily, ears reddening slightly. "Well, you see," he began, conveniently but perhaps not so appropriately stalling, "the thing is…. Well, the thing is, I told Hagrid about it." He smiled, the small grin almost a smirk. "I…. I knew Hermione'd—er—do what she did "— and here he shrugged— "so I decided I might as well have."

"Well, if you must know," began Hermione bossily as they neared the busy crowd outside Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, "it's not very nice to know that an article about your best friend was in a popular magazine and not tell him. They could have been insulting him, telling lies about him – slander, you know, like Rita Skeeter did." She paused, not to take a breath but instead to glare angrily at Ron. "It's not very nice; it could have annoyed him, or made him angry, or something like that. C'mon, Ron, it's not very considerate, and you know it."

"Seriously, I don't mind." Still feeling cheerful, Harry scanned the crowed for a flash or two of that vivid red hair. "C'mon, Hermione, for once people have made me famous without having to whisper about me behind my back. It makes me feel…. Well, I guess it's enough to say I'm happy. It doesn't bother me. Ron was poking harmless fun, is all."

"I suppose," Hermione agreed reluctantly, looking from side to side. "And, if it doesn't bother you, Harry, I guess we should just wrap it…."

"Yes, let's, Ron added eagerly, smiling with genuine happiness this time. "Where are they?" he queried, glancing about it anticipation. "Where are the twins? Anyone see them?"

"But still," Hermione continued loudly over the chatter of the crowd, "you do realize how inconsiderate it was of you, don't you, Ron? You knew, didn't you? You've got to learn sometime. You have to learn sometime."

"Yes, Hermione." It was clear that Ron wasn't listening; his voice was an obedient, lulled murmur and, before they knew it, he was off and calling. "Hey! Fred! George!"

"What's his hurry?" wondered Harry as they walked after him.

"What is it, Ickle Ronniekins?" Fred was guiding a group of eager customers away from the front door. "All right there, chaps, you'll have to move along. The place is already filled – you'll have to wait your turn."

"Yeah, Ron, what is it?" George appeared alongside his brothers, skillfully leading the crowd away from the shop. "Do you need our superior intellect and expertise for aid with something, or have you just come to annoy us?"

"More like the other way around," grunted Ron. Turning around, he saw Harry and Hermione approaching at a comparatively slower pace. "What's with the crowd? Have you made your store bigger?"

"Of course we have, Ron. We always are." Fred gestured loftily toward the shop, where the thick cluster inside was even more prominent than the one they were facing. "Feast your eyes on the sight that waits you within, little brother. Watch in stunned amazement as you catch sight of our brand new products, which are better – or, if you're Mum – worse than any other we've ever created." He smirked, his gesticulation becoming fancier, now a graceful flourish. "And to think they didn't even take long to compile?"

"'Compile?'" repeated Ron, quizzical.

"Compiled," replied George smoothly, changing course to guide another group of awaiting individuals to join the ever-growing throng outside. "All we had to do was use what we'd already produced as mistakes—"

"—and finish it up like that," finished Fred, watching as the doors were pushed open by George and a few assistants; customers flooded in and out, in and out. "We just used what we'd already deduced in mistakes and experiments to make a whole new line of products." He pauses, his eyes alight as he watched George walk determinedly over to a table sets near the front of the shop and address the crowd with a loud shout.

"Oy! Crowd! Listen up!"

Once the noise of the crowd had grown quiet (or partially so, at any rate), George resumed. "Mistakes are the mother of invention." He took a few steps backwards and held what appeared to be a clear glass bottle filled with pink liquid up to the light as he appealed to the mass. "Here, faithful customers, is but one product of our new line of items, Mistakes are the Mother of Invention. As the line name indicates, these products – such as this fine Luvduv Libation – are produced from our experimentation errors. This Luvduv, for example, was the result of testing out a rudimentary stage of the formula now used in our ever-popular love potions." He winked brightly as the throng roared in excitement and anticipation. "Encased in a convenient-for-carrying glass bottle, this bright pink liquid will not enchant the person of your dreams to love none but you; instead, it does something much more potentially dangerous, though one can say it's indeed amusing." He smiled proudly, holding the small silver-stoppered bottle even higher up for display. There was the sound of what sounded distinctly like wizarding cameras snapping shots and their trademark purple-smoke emissions. "It will make the person you hate, the bully of your dreams, or perhaps even yourself should you so desire, fall for the next person they clap eyes on. Very dangerous, seeing as this potion's effects last only for a week or two at most, but vastly amusing they are. Vastly, vastly amusing." He smiled proudly, almost smirking. "Perhaps we should have named this handy little draught Love-in-Idleness."

Once more, there was the snapping of cameras as George set the bottle on the table behind him and held a small, clear vial of liquid up to the light. "See this?" He posed the question with an expert toss of the vial from one hand to the other. "Do you see this small, useful potion I have in my hand?" When he was replied by acquiescing murmurs punctuated by excited cries, he smiled and lifted the vial a little higher. "This, old, faithful customers, is what Fred and I call the Misleading Mixture. This concoction has odd effects; during our experimentations, we, the masters behind Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, knew we wanted to mess around with Veritaserum – truth serum." He grinned, his question aimed at a single person in the crowd. "Our mum, I'm sure," he went on, eyes aimed directly at the plump redhead before him, who was frowning as she fixed her eyes on the small vial, "is wondering who two boys who didn't earn half a dozen O.W.L.s between them and never finished their seventh year at Hogwarts would be capable. Thing is, though, we were able. Not only that, but, after experimentation, we came up with this." He held it up a little higher upward so that its clear glass caught the dazzling sunlight and was answered by buoyant, enthusiastic photo-snapping. "Instead of forcing the drinker to tell the truth, it will force them to tell lies. Lies, lies, and more lies, both of their own accord and every time they're asked a question." A collective gasp followed his statement. Smiling faintly, he finished by dramatically flourishing the bottle, pressing it hard against his chest. "The only cure is a dose of Veritaserum—"

"Speaking of which, I'm going to report you to the Ministry because you were using it without their permission, or even their awareness!" shouted an angry wizard, waving his fist fiercely.

"—or the antidote, which we created and thankfully also sell at this very store for a fifty-percent rebate if bought along with some of this Misleading Mixture," George finished smoothly, ignoring the man he considered irritating. "And, sir, kindly be aware that we were poking harmless fun – or, if you will, harm to no one but ourselves and those to wish to bring it upon them and others."

"Yes, but—" the man was spluttering. "I could get you arrested—!"

George shook his head and rolled his eyes. "No. You couldn't."

Ron cheered as loud and as hard as he could in the shocked silence that followed.

----------------------------------------------

"Really, George, Fred, I don't see why you would literally advertise just how many wizarding laws you broke just to show off some new products and for the life of me I can't see just how it will benefit you—"

"Ah, Mum." George shook his head sadly. "You'll just never understand, will you?"

"Sometimes you can't get caught," Fred carried on cryptically. "Oh, and the previous run-on sentence and annoyed me as well, if I may say so, Mum. But, yeah, like I said, we won't get caught and/pr arrested."

"After all, what they don't know can't hurt them." George sighed. "It did come at a price, though—"

"—paying all those customers." Fred had annoyed look in his eyes. "We had to give the entire crowd our new products and that demented bloke more than I care to say."

"You simply can't imagine the number of Galleons we had to give him just to keep his trap shut, Mum." George calmly observed his mother as she stalked angrily on through Diagon Alley ahead of them, not listening to one word. "However, you'll be happy to know that, with all these new products, we're going to soon be the richest brothers in the country." He grinned. "Though, of course, our purchase of Zonko's is going to contain a huge portion of that very money, but hey! Still our money, no?"

"Though this does take away from our working hours and our supply of it, if you must know, Mum," remarked Fred coolly. "Care to let us go?"

Molly resumed grumbling under her breath, keeping Fred and George close by behind her with a steady, level gaze. She continued berating them as, luckily and unluckily, a person appeared on the horizon. This was both good and bad: for one thing, she stopped muttering as quickly as if she had been give a good dose of Quieting Concoction and, for another, this person was a very bad person indeed. Molly had never met this particular person once in her life, but she instantly knew who she was.


	9. Unpredictable Surprises

The woman standing solidly before them, outside on the sun-washed steps of Gringotts, was bearing bad tidings. Or, at least, that was what her unexpected appearance – in both senses of the word – would suggest.

Her blond curls were hanging lank, wet against her forehead as if soaked in sweat. Her eyes, normally so bright and full of nastiness, were now dull and annoyed, though that didn't stop the hateful, piercing look in them. Her heavy jaw hung lower than usual, and several jewels were missing from her small, greasy spectacles. The crocodile-skin purse hanging at her side was clamped in a tight, ragged-nailed, mannish grip, which opened the bag before their eyes. She pushed her hand into it, withdrew something, and snapped it shut; the quill she delved forth from its depths was a bright, poisonous acid-green. She licked its tip thoughtfully, setting it in her opposite hand.

Instantly, upon seeing them coming her way, the quill jumped back into the purse, moving furiously even as she closed it more hastily than was normal. The woman ignored the quill as it scribbled away inside her bag, her eyes instead focused on Molly as she drew forth with the twins in tow.

"Rita Skeeter." Molly would have known it was her even without the nametag neatly pinned onto her lapel, which read, below the name, _Journalist_,in a flowing red script. Molly couldn't explain it, but she definitely knew who this woman was. "Come to take the fun away from my children's lives, have you?" Instinctively, she yanked Fred and George away from the intense blonde, though they had actually been advancing, probably to (how naughty of them) speak with her.

"Mum, leave us alone." Fred tipped an imaginary hat, stepping toward Rita. "If anyone wants to report us to the Ministry in a cruel, slandering article that will be utterly hilarious to none but us, then let it be her."

"She's the one who's got the qualifications." George harrumphed loudly and trailed faithfully toward Rita. "I don't mind slander, so long as it remains that way. Compliments would hurt our feelings and remind us that we are doing a good job."

"Or so you say." Rita absently jerked her quill and a piece of parchment out of her bag, making sure to lick its sharp point for quite a while. "But, dear boys, I would love any information you would give me if you so desire." She smiled, but it was pinched, not pleasant, as would be expected of her. "To be honest, it was hard enough to snag the position of _Prophet_'s special correspondent, but, because of annoying little snitch," – here her face contorted in anger, and it was unclear to the three who were looking on of who she was thinking, though they could very well guess – "I now have to settle for being a normal journalist, which, if anything, is even harder." She stared pointedly at the three Weasleys, face convulsing into a frown. "Therefore, if anyone has any information, I would be much obliged…."  
"Not a chance." Molly stared Rita down furiously, feeling the beat of her heart in her chest and the course of sweat down her brow. "We would never work for you, or even give you an article. I read all those slandering articles you wrote about Hagrid, and Hermione, you know, and saying you're awful would be giving you too much credit."

"Mum, don't be so venomous." Fred regally tossed his head, amicably draping an arm about her shoulders and bowing artistically. "Dearest reporter, my twin and I would love giving you an interview – provided, of course, that you wouldn't mind taking an interview from the soon-to-be owners of Zonko's and current managers of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes."

Rita smiled, ignoring Molly's words despite poisonous eyes. "All right, then, Misters Weasley, if you don't mind, I know a place where we can go to do this privately." The emphasis on the last word was sharp, cruel; promptly, she turned on her heel, flanked by Fred and George as she strode away. "And, if you don't mind, answer me as truthfully as possible."

Harry watched along with Ron and Hermione from where they were hidden behind a nearby shop, observing the whole discourse. "Look who's talking," he grunted, furious.

"Let's follow them," decided Ron immediately.

"Ron, we can't!" Hermione was enraged. "C'mon, Ron, we can't just do that. I mean, Fred and George want to let her write that article." She smiled smugly, watching as Molly angrily strode away. "After all, after what I did to her, she wouldn't try slandering like she did before."

"What happened to her, anyway?" queried Harry as he followed stealthily along after Ron, successfully ignoring Hermione's counsel. "Why was she there to take that 'exclusive' interview from me in fifth year?"

"Oh…er…that." Hermione followed her friends with nary a grumble, for once on their side – or, at the very least, keeping her comments (and much better advice) to herself. "About that." Her cheeks reddened as she walked alongside the boys, but she held her head high. "See, I let her free from that jar and threatened to report her to the Ministry if she didn't do the article. I kept that threat when I let her go – she's still an illegal Animagus."

"What did she say?" Ron cut across Hermione's path, stopping before the Apothecary. He examined it calmly, eyes intent on the three figures discussing inside. "Did she agree?"

"She would have got arrested if I did report her." Hermione placed one hand on the door's smooth wood, then pulled away. "Even she knew better, after all. She wanted to keep her secret safe. Now she works for the _Prophet_, but as a regular journalist." She smiled, smugly and secretively. "I…. In a sense, I'm…. Well, I'm blackmailing her, but so that she won't get us in trouble with the Ministry instead of for money. I'm making her do what I want just so she keeps her mouth shut – it makes me feel guilty."

"Leave it, Hermione," said Ron loudly. "She deserves everything she gets, trust me." He shook his head angrily. "I mean, I can't believe you're sticking up for her, especially after all those things she said about you a few years back…."

Harry tuned out as Ron and Hermione began bickering, preferring instead to look through the window of the Apothecary as Rita hurriedly led the twins inside, to the shop's back door, and ushered them through it, much to the apparent surprise of the manager and clients. It was the thing Ron and Hermione always did, the thing he was used to, the thing that he knew would have cropped up sooner or later, the thing that, he found, was childish, immature, and annoying and prevented them from telling each other their true feelings. Instead, wondering why they had to argue to the extent that Hermione's voice was actually rising in a shout, he moved over to stand by the door in wait. He listened with rapt attention, wondering what Rita could possibly be up to with Fred and George. Of course, they'd asked for it quite clearly, but, on the other hand, that didn't mean it was going to be any good. And, of course, there was the issue of the Veritaserum; he was sure Rita had heard George's mention of the truth serum and would comment on it and their breaking of the wizarding law.

Before long, though, Ron and Hermione, realizing that he had walked away from them while they'd been arguing, reappeared by his side, abashed. "We're sorry, mate," Ron told him, embarrassed as he held up what appeared to be a fleshy ear piece of string. "We were being stupid, I guess, but we're all right now…." He hurried on, diverting himself from the topic and the blush that was quickly spreading across his face. "Look at this: it's an Extendable Ear, one from Fred and George's shop." An expression of annoyance flitted over his face. "Cost me a fat lot of money to buy, too, but, at any rate, we can use this eavesdrop on them."

"Ron…." Hermione the trailed off as Ron, shaking his head, screwed the device into his ear. He hurriedly distributed two lengths of the same type of string to Harry and Hermione. He gestured for them to move away silently; this they did, Hermione not uttering word as they placed the tips of the strings gently in their ears.

"Go," they whispered together, a nearly inaudible command.

"So, boys, tell me…. How did you originally get into the business of creating and selling joke items?" Rita's voice was accompanied by the familiar sound of the Quick-Quotes Quill scribbling as fast as it could, evidently scribbling slandering lies onto the parchment.

"Well, to be honest, when we were younger…"

"…we loved making things explode…"

"…and Dungbombs, of course. Gotta love those Dungbombs."

"So, before long, we decided that we had to do something…"

"…and we knew that, someday before long, we would be raking in the Galleons…"

"How old were you then?"

"Well, quite young actually…. It was at the tender age of thirteen that we knew we had our work cut out for us…."

"Other kids our age had never even attempted as such, but we did…"

"we knew it was our destiny, see…."

"So, you were about to start third year…. Mmm, you're giving me some good things… And how did it affect your career at Hogwarts?"

"Not much…. I mean, we were known throughout the school as troublemakers…"

"….we just continued it at home as well, is all…. We were expecting what happened next…."

"That is to say, our mum got her poor little self riled up at that, but…"

"…we didn't care. She'd thank us someday, we knew…."

"Why did you decide to open Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes when you did?"

"Well, Rita, as I'm sure you'll understand, we felt that, at that time…"

"…we were old enough. I mean, we were eighteen. Legal adults in the wizarding and Muggle worlds, you see…"

"And, as you also see, we figured it was high time. I mean, before we started sixth year…"

"…we set up a mail-order business in the _Prophet _to market our wonderful creations…"

"…but, as usual, Mum ended up burning the order forms." There was a profound sigh. "If you ask me, those poor little customers. It's more expensive in the store, you see, even though there aren't any shipping and/or handling costs."

"But did you openly defy your mother's wishes because you were feeling pressured? Anguished? Agonized? In emotional pain?"

"That's just the sort of question she would ask, isn't it?" said Ron bitterly; at that point, the three of them had fallen silent to listen intently to the words flowing from within the Leaky Cauldron, and Ron had forgotten that they could be heard if they spoke too loudly. As if suddenly realizing something, he gave a strangled gasp and pulled out his wand. Without a single word, without a single acknowledging gesture, Harry and Hermione grabbed him hard by the shoulders in unison. Ron struggled in their grip, then fell silent; Hermione pushed him away from the door so they could continue listening.

"Are you kidding? Yeah, of course we did. Dear ol' Mum was much too restrictive. We felt that we had to do something…"

"…something very important that we knew would someday shock her ever so much."

Ron looked dumbfounded, as did Harry. Hermione, nonplussed, whispered furiously to them before Rita could pose the next question. "I suppose they're doing it to throw her off. Don't worry, Ron, they would never – er – anything to your mum. I know about these things. They probably have a few tricks up their sleeves, as usual."  
Ron grunted and started for the door, but was once more restrained by Harry and Hermione. Growling, he resisted briefly, but his wrath soon ended and he fell limp. Thrusting him aside again, Hermione listened in rapt attention to the words pouring from the three on the other side of the door.

"So, Misters Weasley, care for a drink? On the house – if you'll continue this interview, that is. I have enough for triple Butterbeers. Do you accept?"

"Sure, Rita, we're much obliged."

"Even the famed can get famished – quite easily, as a matter of fact – if you must know, jolly old chapess."

There was the clink of Galleons, the tap of glass bottles touching each other, the inaudible whispers of the plotting. Finally, the stream of voices continued, coupled this time with what sounded like sipping from a long-necked bottle. "Misters Weasley, are there any other reasons you decided to do what you did? Feeling pressured from being poor, perhaps, or maybe because you were feeling crowded in a family as big as your own?"

"Well, I would say a combination of both, Rita. However…"

"…it was more owing to the wonderful abundance of brothers in the dear old Burrow that convinced us to do it. As you can see, we were feeling very bad, abandoned, alone, left out because of our large family."

"Of course, our lack of money also made up a large factor of that desire to disobey the rules as well. Trust me, Rita; things are much, much better than we ever could have expected them to be, and all thanks to our lack of money and inordinately large, forgetful family."

"Hm…. I wonder…." There was what sounded like riffling parchment. "What is your greatest ambition? Or ambitions, should that be the case?"

"To prove to everyone that we're much richer than they ever would have expected us to be."

"Of course, by now, they should have discovered that juicy little fact already, but I enjoy defying them to their limits. It's quite amusing, you see."

"Who is the person you detest the most in the world? One of your many siblings, perhaps, or your cruel, creativity-squashing mother? Or, perhaps, someone who you've always hated and has only continued to pressure you on and on through the ages?"

They chimed their answer at exactly the same time:

"That, dearest Rita, would be you."

There was a scuffle, from what the trio could hear – it sounded like Fred and George walking away, someone pushing chairs, Rita's quill finally coming to a standstill, and quiet chuckling. Ron, Hermione and Harry moved away just before Fred and George strode quickly past them, banging the door open and throwing their empty Butterbeer bottles behind them, toward the (quite probably) shell-shocked Rita indoors. Escaping her notice, the bottles rolled along on the floor into the Apothecary, the glass clinking ominously on the wooden tiles.

Peeking through the doorway, Hermione caught sight of Rita standing here, mouth agape, hands still clenching a thick bundle of parchment and her acid-green Quick-Quotes Quill. She indeed look shocked, but, before the minute had ended, she was smirking, satisfied. She closed the door behind her before walking quickly ahead of the twins. She whirled around to face them, eyes narrowed. They simply pushed her aside, ignoring her without any sign of remorse.

"Sorry, moving through."

"We have much more important things to do than talking with you."

And, with a bang of smoke and a flash of light, they were gone.


	10. Bittersweet Happenings

There was a scuffle, from what the trio could hear – it sounded like Fred and George walking away, someone pushing in chairs, Rita's quill finally coming to a standstill, and Tom chuckling quietly. They moved away just before Fred and George, banged the door open. They threw Butterbeer bottles back to Rita; without her noticing, they rolled along on the tiled floor past her feet. Peeking through the door as Fred and George strode away from them, Hermione caught sight of Rita standing there, mouth agape, hands gripping still a thick parchment notebook. She smirked, satisfied, and closed the door before whirling around to face Fred and George full in the face.

"All right, so how did you do it?" The evil grins were clean and plain for all to see on their faces. "And why? I thought she was bad enough off as she is."

"'S'what you think." Fred calmly picked at the button on the collar of his robe. "Trust me, Hermione, that woman's nasty. This, little Hermione's Granger, still isn't enough, as a matter of fact."

"That will come when tomorrow's issue of the _Prophet _is finally unleashed upon the wizarding world." George tapped his nose, suggestively raising his eyebrows. With a smirk, he filled them on the secret. "Once it's released upon the masses, everyone will know just how kind and gentle our mum is."

"Switched the parchment the quill was writing on and substituted with your own and got Rita in the process, did you?" Hermione was amused, but also quite impressed. "Oh, and used your own quill, didn't you?" She lifted her eyebrows, pleased. "I must say, for boys who never took their N.E.W.T.s and couldn't scrape half a dozen O.W.L.s between them, you really are doing quite well. I'm impressed."

"The wonders of the world never end, do they, Fred?" George was grinning.

Fred grinned back, the freckles standing out on his cheeks. "Of course they don't, George."

"Anyhow…" George coughed politely. "If you'll excuse us, we have matters to settle."

"Matters that involve both our genius and creativity." Fred parted his hair, carefully tucking a bang away between his eyes, before following George to the corner of the local pub. "Until then, we bid you a fond ta ta, for that should take a while."

They Disapparated, and Ron shook his head. "They still surprise me, even after all these years of living with them."

A familiar, toothless wizard appeared beside them, looking sadly at the empty Butterbeer bottles rolling away into the horizon. "They sure do."

--------------------------------------------

Harry was trying on new dress robes, and it was currently giving him a lot of pain.

Not emotional pain, obviously. Regular ol' physical pain. Pain from the ruffed collar of his silky bottle-green dress robes, which was tight around his neck, a pain that he didn't want to feel right now—

Mrs. Weasley shook her head, clucking loudly, and waved her wand. Instantly, the ruff loosened and Harry breathed a sigh of relief. "Maybe getting them the same color as last time wasn't a good idea, dear. They seem small for you, but they looked fine at the shop."

"It's OK, Mrs. Weasley," Harry assured her, grinning faintly as he massaged his neck. "The collar is a little too tight, is all."

With a sigh and another wave of the wand, Harry's collar was perfect. He smiled again and removed his dress robes, depositing them in the bag lying casually by the door before sitting down to watch as Arthur tried on his own dress robes – a second-hand, store-bought navy-blue garment – as he let his mind wander. It was later that day, towards evening, and the Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione were in the midst of trying on their new clothes for Bill and Fleur's wedding. Watching from benches arrayed against Ginny's emptied room as they others tested their new garbs was calming after everything else that had happened that day, relaxing and enjoyable. It also supplied with the trio with plenty of time to discuss amongst themselves.

"When is Bill and Fleur's wedding?" asked Hermione. "In the morning?"

Ron nodded, looking green as he riffled through the bag. "Yeah, in a few days. Look, Mum got me maroon. _Again_. You know, with all this new money we've got because of Fred and George's shop, you'd expect her to be able to buy more expensive things."

"You can buy some more if you want," Harry told him quickly. "I have a lot of money left. I can lend you some."

"It's fine; I prefer not to bother you about it. But still…." Ron didn't elaborate, but his ears were going faintly red. He sighed, shaking his head before setting the dress robes back in the bag. He turned to her, a confused expression on his face. "Speaking of Fred and George, I wonder when that article is going to come…."

"Honestly, Ron, they even said it would be tomorrow's paper." Hermione, annoyed as usual, watched Arthur's drifting smile as he turned smoothly under Molly's command; he was clearly thinking of something that made him happy and obedient – namely, Muggles and all their 'elrektic' apparatuses. "They have some tricks hidden somewhere. I'll end up feeling bad for her – I know I will."

"You will, Hermione." Still looking faintly disgusted because of his plain brown dress robes, Ron observed Arthur slip off his own new clothes and neatly arrange them in the bag before leaving Charlie to try his own on. "I wager you will, actually."

"Yeah, but just what are Fred and George planning?" Harry shrugged. "Well, what they did plan, that is. I hope her quill didn't catch everything they were saying about your mum, Ron. They were lying, weren't they?"

"For the most part." Ron grinned, closing his eyes and leaning back on the bench. "Man, that was a good clincher – 'That, dearest Rita, would be you.' Pure genius. I mean, I knew all that stuff they were saying about Mum was a lie, of course, probably meant to get themselves famous and rich again—"

"Well, it sure didn't seem like you understood," retorted Hermione.

"—and that pulled it all together. Do you know what spell they used, Hermione?"

She shrugged, watching as Charlie shrugged easily into his high-collared dress robes. "They could have used a Banishing Charm, I suppose, but I didn't hear them moving their wands. At any rate, they wouldn't have had to – I'm sure they just changed the paper and the quill manually." She stopped suddenly, pondering. "Oh, and Ron…? Do you know what quill they used?"

"Don't you already know what kind of quill it was?" Ron teased. "You know, I would have expected you – you, especially – to be more interested in the article they switched on her." Ron's voice was admirable; Harry deigned not to say anything, instead holding his breath as a moment of understanding passed between the two. Ron replied, "Yeah, I think it was one of their Listener Quills. A dumb name, I guess, but it came from one of their mistakes, again. Anyhow, it writes what you tell it to write – it can erase things too."

A pause trickled by. It certainly was interesting, and, Harry figured, Hermione would have been much more intrigued – though that was of course not the right word – a while ago. Now, however, she pondered for quite a while. She knew this time around that Fred and George were up to something good for once, and he sensed that she'd matured. He smiled, saddened, at the thought. They'd all matured since the end of sixth year, and yet none of them had even noticed….

The three of them gave a start as Mrs. Weasley called up Hermione. Still smiling, Harry watched absently as Hermione hopped onto the stool and stood while Mrs. Weasley wordlessly handed her bright blue dress robes. With a glance at Ron, he marveled at the starstruck look in his eyes and wondered why they'd wasted so much time bickering.

Sometimes a person just had to feel happy, and this was one of them.

Then again, mulled Harry as Ron and Hermione resumed discussing and Ginny mounted the stool, thinking about them together was the right thing to do. After all, they fancied each other, and that was that.

--------------------------------------------

Harry watched Ginny as she pushed the door open the next morning and slipped into his room. She was nothing but a pajam'd, red-headed blur, but he knew it was her. Sitting up, he pushed on his glasses and greeted her sleepily. "Hullo, Gin."

"'Morning, Harry." Ginny, bright as always, smiled as she held up what appeared to be that day's copy of the _Daily Prophet _at arm's length toward him. "Ron and Hermione are already up. Just wait till you see today's paper."

"That article Fred and George swapped?" Harry lifted his glasses up slightly and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Is it good?"

"What are you saying, good?" Ginny laughed. "Trust me – it's not good; it's _brilliant_."

Harry squinted as he perched his glasses once more on the bridge of his nose, but, before he was aware of anything, Ginny snatched the _Prophet _behind her back before his eyes. "Not yet, Harry," she giggled, waving a finger in front of his face. "Not until you get down to the kitchen and see Mum – she's in tears."

Harry was horrified. "All—All that stuff they said about her was true?" he gasped.

But Ginny only smiled. "You'll see," she said. And then she was gone, with only a faint yell of 'And if you don't come, prepare yourself for a snap of the Bat Bogey Hex Slughorn loved so much' floating on the air.

Harry jumped out of bed. What in the world were Fred and George hiding under their sleeves?

--------------------------------------------

Hermione looked up from where she was reading at the Weasleys' kitchen tabel. Ginny had appeared, tailed shortly by Harry, coming down the stairs. Hearing the excited babble of talk coming from the Weasleys around her, she flipped a page and watched as Ginny led Harry to the table and pushed him into a chair.

"Eat your breakfast." She shoved him so hard that his knees buckled as he dropped into the chair. "Then you'll see."

Hermione checked her watch before turning to Ginny. Harry, began eating, looking confused in spite of the strange glint in his eye. "Where did your mum go? I haven't seen her for a few hours, not since I finished eating, even though your dad told me to stay here. Why?"

"Well, did you see the issue of the _Prophet_?" Ginny answered the question with a question.

Hermione nodded, putting her book on the table as her eyes scanned the room. Ginny clearly knew where Mrs. Weasley was, but she wasn't letting her on anything without a few tricks. "Yes. Why?" she asked, playing along with the younger girl. She'd find out eventually, along with why she'd been told to stay here for hours one end.

Ginny smiled. "And did you hear anything aside from this?" Impatiently, she gestured to the mess of Weasleys chattering around the table.

Hermione thought. "Well, I thought I heard something like a sob…" In a flash, she saw before her very eyes what could have happened. "Is she all right? Is she angry because of the article?"

Ginny patted Hermione's shoulder. "Relax. She's fine. Trust me. I just saw her. She'll be more than all right, actually, in about—" she turned her head around to see Hermione's watch "—an hour." She grinned apologetically. "I mean, I know three hours is a lot for Mum to be—" She broke off, shaking her head. "Never mind. Anyhow, she should be all right soon."

Hermione nodded, keeping an ear on the excited nattering that surrounded them. The other six Weasleys, Ron included, were talking on and off about the article. Mr. Weasley was both excited and angry, Bill was impressed, Charlie was admiring the thought put into the idea, Fred and George were marveling at their own talent, and Ron was shaking his head in happy disbelief. Harry was eating his second helping of porridge, averting her eyes. Ginny was watching him, lost in thought, her eyes glazed over. Hermione, deciding to trust her friend even though Mrs. Weasley was definitely acting strange, nervously read another page of the book, _A History of House-elves_. It was vastly informative, and she enjoyed reading up on the poor creatures' pitiable predicament, but she was finding reading hard to concentrate on. The talk kept coming to her ears and, even when it didn't, the thought of poor Mrs. Weasley crying behind the secure, closed door of the kitchen returned to her. The door had been magically locked – by Fred and George, she supposed – and she was keyed, uptight. No tension buildup was snapping in the air, and Hermione knew that Ginny knew what she was saying, but it still unnerved her. What was going on…?

Finally deciding that reading was the best solution, Hermione returned to her book. Nonetheless, she more-than-occasionally stopped to check her watch and see when that hour would finally be up.

--------------------------------------------

"Well, that explains a lot," grumped Harry.

They were sitting at the table an exact hour later and Molly was standing before them. Yes, she had been crying – the tear strains still ran down her face and her normally bright eyes were wet – but they had been tears of joy. Indeed, she didn't stop laughing as she showed them the front page of the _Daily Prophet_. In bold print it read, _Molly Weasley: Mother or Manhandler?_ and, below the title, there was a moving photo of Molly's face. The article, the audacious cursive went on, had been written by _Hard Workers_.

"You two? Working hard? A new one, but on the other hand there's a first time for everything," chuckled Bill.

_Long nowadays the question 'How did the famed twin owners of Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, Fred and George Weasley, come to be?' has been asked. Well, the answer is quite simple. They were raised by a decent wizarding family – one with a lot of children and much less money, true, but nonetheless ordinary enough – and guided under the hand of an excellent mother. Molly Weasley, a tireless caregiver for family and friends alike, is known for her short temper when it came to matters of the twins' childhood mischiefmaking. However, she has proved to be not the furious whip-cracking slavedriver everyone thought she was but instead a kind, gentle, one-of-a-kind mother who loves her children with all her heart and soul._

_Some have asked what the importance of juvenile punishment for harmless yet irking mischief is, and these reporters have to say that it sure makes a difference. If Molly had not attempted time after time to restrict her sons' amusing yet potentially dangerous antics, they would not be the same they are today. "It made a bigger challenge, for us," explained George Weasley, co-owner of the joke-shop chain now storming over Britain, in a confidential interview. "See, if she'd left us to our own devices, things would have been easier."_

"_We wouldn't have wanted to build the joke shop of our dreams like we actually did," continued his brother and co-founder, Frederick Weasley. "We would have just dropped it off and picked up something else, something we would have indubitably been worse at."_

"_So, yes, there's almost absolutely nothing that would have come out of this shop – of course, on the other hand, we wouldn't have it, period – if it hadn't been for dear old mum." George chuckled. "Of course, her frequent attempts at scolding us for our mischief was annoying, but the fun lies in openly defying her wishes."_

_Of course, Molly is more than a good mother to her children – much, much more. She's also a good wife, as was revealed in a confidential interview with husband Arthur Weasley, who works in the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects. "Wouldn't be who I am without her," Arthur said with a bashful grin as his ears and neck flush slightly. "Tender and loving, that woman is, and with a great eye for—er—whipping people back into shape. She did that to me, she did. It scared me somewhat at first, but now I know I'm a better person because of her."_

_When asked on the subject of her short fuse, Arthur merely shrugged. "Yes, I guess she does," he added, "but then again I suppose it depends. You have to annoy her, bother her, pester her. If not you should be extremely well off – after all, you must never forget what a great person she is."_

_In conclusion, these reporters can say that not only is Molly Weasley one of the best wizarding mothers they've seen (and, truth be told, they've seen a lot), but she's also a strong, dedicated, hardworking witch who strives to do her best. She may be fast to fly off the handle from time to time, but, without that extra pinch in the right direction, none of the Weasleys would be the way they would be today. If only all mothers, magical and Muggle, could be like her!_

--------------------------------------------

Ron stared in shock at what he was seeing in black and white before him, but Harry was grinning and slapping his friend's shoulder. "Good going, Ron," he teased, "She may have done things you didn't like sometimes, but it paid off."

"Well, I never doubted it." Bill was calm. "Except you trying to say Fleur and I are too young to get married in a few days, that is."

"Leave it, Bill," suggested Charlie, patting Molly on the back as silent tears of joy ran down her cheeks. "She's a better mother than we think, isn't she, Mum?"

"Still, though," and here Bill turned to the twins, "why did you do it?"

George shrugged, a smile curling his lips. "Because we wanted to," he answered simply.

"Yes," added Fred, but it was clear that there was more to it than that. He grinned, dramatically turning another page of the newspaper. "And just take a gander at this article, everyone."

It only took a glance at the headline for everyone to feel shock and amusement: _Rita Skeeter, Arrested Animagus._

"How did you know that she's an Animagus?" asked Hermione, but there was an odd expression on her face. She was already turning around to face Ron, the confusion quickly turning to anger. "Ron—!

"I told them, all right, Hermione?" Ron turned away from her as fast as he could, showing them his coloring ears. "D'you hear?"

"Let's not fight now." Arthur, being the caring parent he was, got to his feet, turned Ron so that they were facing one another. "C'mon, Hermione, Ron was allowed to do it," he told her mildly, looking into her eyes. At a furious glance from Molly, he stuttered. "I mean – oh – er—" He whipped around quite quickly after that. "I mean, Ron, you shouldn't have done that. It was a secret that was supposed to be kept between you three and it wasn't right to tell Fred and George about it." When Hermione finally sighed and returned to her book with a 'All right, Ron, it's fine this time,' he leaned in closer to his youngest son. "But, Ron, is it true that Rita Skeeter is an Animagus?"

Ron nodded slowly. "How else would Fred and George written about it?"

Arthur smiled and sympathetically patted Ron's shoulder. "Don't worry, son, you did the right thing. Mark my words; it was a kind thing the twins did for Molly. All right? Hermione, like Molly, can be restrictive." He winked, and Ron bolted upright, back snapping with the speed of his motions. "You two are just like Molly and I were at your age, except we—"

But he never finished his sentence. There was the sound of ruffling wings, coupled with what appeared to be steps going to the window. Molly stood before a handsome tawny owl, taking the letter slowly from where it was tied to the owl's leg.

"Oh, dear," she said, after opening the letter and running her eyes down it. "It—It's Percy."

--------------------------------------------

Instantly, everyone clustered around Molly as she looked at Hermes and beckoned to him with a wave of her hand. "What's the prat up to this time?" asked Fred, but a tone of urgency permeated his voice.

"Yeah, Mum, is he coming crawling back to us because he couldn't become Minister for Magic?" George sounded annoyed as well as he crowded around Molly, but, like Fred's, his voice held a trace of seriousness.

Bill was thoughtful, his words coming slowly as he answered. "Mum, I… Well, everyone's accepted that the war is going on for real right now. I think he wants to come back. He couldn't have meant all those things you told me about in those letters."

"It's too…. It's too unPercyish." Charlie gravely read the letter that was lying limply in Molly's palm. "He must be coming back to us. He got the letter for the wedding Fleur's wedding, after all," he added, squeezing her shoulder.

"I don't know…" Arthur trailed off, chewing his lip in concentration and his forehead creasing. "Percy is – Well, you know Percy. He always was pompous, ambitious, wanting to get to the top of the latter. But…still… I can believe him wanting to come back, but something must have changed his mind."

"What does it say?" Harry stood a step backward, facing Ron's backside.

"Yes, what does it say, Mrs. Weasley?" added Hermione, standing beside him. "Can you read it out to us?"

In a trembling, wavering voice, Molly immediately read the letter.

_Dear Mother,_

_After having received the invitation to Bill's wedding, I was left to ponder. One part of me wanted to attend, and another part of me did not. Finally, in the end, I realized what_ _a – well, what a fool I've been being these past few years. Getting high up the corporate ladder is nothing if you don't have a family – or a true friend, for that matter – to share your newfound success with. So, Mother, I've decided that I'll be at Bill's wedding. I know now that I was being such an idiot, so you can expect to see me there. I hope that you lot will accept me for who I am even though I was such a fool. _

_With sincerest thanks for all you've done for me,_

_Percy_


	11. The Tension Rises

"Oh, boo hoo." Fred pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped it across his eyes. "Listen to that Perce – asking to be accepted back into the family—"

"Not that he ever was really in it, of course," interjected George.

"—and he's so darn formal about it. What a prat."

"Well, I think it's good that he's finally come back to his right mind." Ginny snatched the letter from Molly and swiped her eyes repeatedly across it. When she spoke, her voice held barely concealed traces of anger. "C'mon, haven't you ever realized that maybe he's being honest for once?"

"Ooh, I'm so scared." Fred rolled his eyes.

"Fred? You know, we're running out of jokes to make every time someone tells us something." George stood firmly before his twin, arms crossed. "Hm… Want to try make something for Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes to solve it?"

"Hm. Genius." Fred grinned wickedly. "It's in both of us – genius, I mean – so let's get to it and pretend we never heard that letter. C'mon, George, we'd better be going—"

"OH NO YOU DON'T!" roared Molly.

The twins froze and tiptoed slowly back to the cluster surrounding her. Finally having everyone's attention, Molly wiped the tears from her eyes and took the letter back from Ginny, holding it up for everyone to see Percy's neat handwriting. "Listen, everyone, Percy's coming back. I want you to treat him like you used to a few years ago."

"Excellent! So we can get back to annoying him like we did before!" cheered George.

"No, you will not!" Molly's eyes were blazing. "You weren't very nice to him to start with, and I want you to be nicer to him than you ever were before. We don't know what he's like now—"

"I do, Molly," interrupted Arthur quietly, and everyone turned to look at him. When he had attracted the silence he wanted, he went on in a grave, saddened tone. "I— I've never spoken to him for more than a minute at a time at work, but when I do see him he's always working. Remember how excited and eager he was for his job with Mr. Crouch a few years ago?"

Everyone nodded slowly. They could well remember Percy's enthusiasm to be working with someone as important as Barty Crouch Senior.

"Well, he's not like that anymore," Arthur continued after taking a shaky breath. "He's— Every time I see him, he's sitting down working, or getting something for his boss – I don't know the bloke, mind, but I hear he's not a nice type – or doing something related to work somehow. I rarely ever talk to him, but when I do, he's – he's frosty with me."

The group was silent, absorbing Arthur's words. Lifting his glasses to wipe his eyes, Arthur continued. "I— I'm not going to mince words with you." He sighed, and everyone felt the sadness radiating from him. "It's not just me, either – he's cold to everyone else who talks to him. I suppose the only person he's ever kind to these days is his boss, and I don't even know who the man is. Everyone complains about him, and—"

"—has he sacked Percy?" Fred and George crowed in unison. Bill, Charlie, Ron, Ginny, Harry, Hermione and Molly stared angrily at them while Arthur shook his head sadly.

"Boys, it isn't funny." He heaved another sigh, and the twins fell silent. "Percy's—Percy's changed. It wasn't just us, either. His new job is taking a toll on him, and so is the wizarding world today. With the threat of You-Know-Who and Death Eaters lurking everywhere and with no friends or family by his side— I think he's feeling scared. He took some moments to control his shaking voice. "I— Well, you see, that's why Molly and I want you to be as kind to him as possible. He'll never heal entirely; the emotional scars will always remain. But that doesn't mean we can't try to help him be the person he was."

"Well, of course he is, the git," Fred interrupted. "He could have asked us to come back before now if he was so scared, instead of waiting all this time."

"Percy was scared." Arthur looked sternly the twins, frowning. "He worked himself into a rut. He was feeling guilty, to its – he didn't want to bother us, make us angry; he was afraid that if he told us the reason why he did that, we'd never accept him."

"Why, though?" Bill mused worriedly. "Why did he break away from us in the first place?"

Harry sighed, bowing his head. "It was because of me," he said quietly. "I— Well, when Percy got wind up everything that was happening with me, he— he wanted Ron to stop hanging around with me. It just got worse from there." He paused. "I mean, it was his fault that he did this to you a lot, though – but I can understand how he's feeling even if. Not that it was an extremely stupid and all, but, I guess, that's the way he is. "

It was so tense someone could have heard the tension mounting and pins dropping. No one said anything, barely moving a muscle. Finally Molly, clearly flustered yet trying to be as calm as possible, said boldly, "Well, I had a feeling Percy would come to his wits someday. I got him dress robes for the wedding." Bustling past them, she went to get it from the bag lying in her room. "You lot leave me now. I have work to deal with."

Fred broke the silence that followed, turning to Arthur. "Dad, do you know what happened to Rita Skeeter?"

"No, what is it, Fred? And what about the article? "

Fred and George exchanged wicked grins. "Well, see, Dad, the thing is—" George began.

"What they mean is that Rita Skeeter has to pay a fine of a thousand Galleons to get herself out of the trouble she's in. She's under house arrest and she's being watched by Ministry officials around the clock." Charlie smiled, tiredly shaking his head. "Do you know what they charged her for?"

Arthur smiled back, looking genuinely happy for once in a long time. "What?"

Charlie's smile had by now turned into a grin. "'Withholding secrets and confidential information from the Ministry of Magic.' Her being a beetle could seriously have helped them, after all, what with the war and everything."

"They have a law for that?" queried a bemused Arthur, and Charlie chuckled.

--------------------------

But, come nighttime, all the good humor had dispersed. Harry was lying in bed in the room he shared with Ron, the blinds pulled down over the window and Hedwig and Pigwidgeon watching him from their cages. Pig hooted sleepily; Harry raised a hand to silence the tiny Scops. Aware of the silence around him, his thoughts wandered to Hogwarts. He could still hear the sounds of Ron, Hermione, and the rest of the Weasleys moving around downstairs; it wasn't ten o'clock yet, but Harry had felt the need to go to bed – mostly for thinking, mulling, musing on everything that had been happening to him.

His mind soon drifted to Hogwarts, and sadness made a hole in his heart. Harry wondered if it would ever open again. He didn't know exactly what to think of that – he didn't want the school closed, but, he didn't want anyone then again, he didn't want anyone to get hurt because of it. He hoped that everyone would be all right, but, deep down, though he didn't want to admit it, he knew this was false. No one would be all right during this war if he didn't do anything, what with Dumbledore dead and all—

Harry stopped, remembering Dumbledore. He'd known Hogwarts' Headmaster longer than he'd known Sirius, more than he'd ever known his own parents. Thinking that he was gone— Well, it seemed downright impossible. Dumbledore was the one who had defeated Grindelwald, the one who had always been there for his school, the one who'd never given up, who'd worked harder than anyone else. He'd seemed– Well, he'd seemed untouchable. He'd fought against Voldemort and lived, way back at the end of fifth year; he'd led Harry into the twisted abyss that was Voldemort's childhood; he'd been the metaphorical mortar that had held the school together through hard times. He'd always been there— He'd always been there for his students— He'd always been for Harry.

Harry rolled over in bed, biting the pillow to keep from crying. He'd never thought about it, but Dumbledore was much, much more than a kindly, doddering old Headmaster. He'd been there for Harry every time – not because he was his favorite student, but because he'd been preparing him. He'd been preparing him for the day, the day when it would come. The day when it would all end. The day when he would finally defeat Voldemort.

Harry buried his head in the pillow. No wonder. Dumbledore may have seemed an ancient fool to some, but he'd been— He'd been like—

He'd been a grandfather to Harry. And it was because of that that Harry knew he would someday defeat Voldemort.

Lying there, feeling the cold sheet press against his body and the flat pillow against his hair, Harry felt anguished. Dumbledore had been his guiding light through the ages, and he wasn't going to let him down. Moving about in bed, his thoughts strayed to Sirius. Sirius— Well, Sirius— Harry couldn't explain it, but he knew in his heart that Sirius had been a father figure to him. He'd always been there, proving his wisdom time and time again in spite of his recklessness and rashness. He'd been there, time after time, always there. He'd offered to take Harry as one of his own, under his wing, and now Harry knew that, even after death, Sirius was watching him.

Knowing that he would never see Sirius again, Harry gave a great shuddering gasp and buried his head once more in the pillow. Sirius had died such a long time ago, but old wounds still hurt, even without salt. He knew that, acknowledging it as he remembered Sirius – his gratification when he saw him, his rugged love of a best friend, his want, his desire, his need to be loved. He remembered, and he cried.

_Well, _ Harry thought as the flow of tears finally stopped, _wouldn't Rita Skeeter like what she'd see: me, the great Harry Potter, the 'Chosen One,' crying alone in bed at night._

--------------------------

Harry stared at the letter in his hands. Disoriented, he tried to make sense of the words that flowed across the envelope.

_What's…. What's going on? _he thought, staring deeply at it. Turning over the parchment in his hands, he recognized the seal pasted onto its flap with a jolt: the Ministry of Magic seal.

He'd seen it before, when he'd been to the building before fifth year for his hearing. At last making sense of what he was seeing, Harry gave a start as Ron's voice resonated around the room behind him.

"Harry? What's that— Oh, yeah, that's right! Happy birthday, Harry! Your presents are under the bed."

It was the next day, and the wedding was but a few days away. Harry had just received a letter, but not just any letter; it was a letter from the Ministry of Magic. And not for nothing: it was July 31st, Harry's seventeenth birthday.

He would now be able to do magic outside of school.

Standing there in the kitchen shortly after breakfast, Harry heard Ron and Hermione as they sat at his sides, but he didn't care. His thoughts were racing ahead of him— letter or no, seventeen or sixteen, he had the feeling he still would have gone on his quest to stop Voldemort. He would have gone anyway, and by the time he supposed Voldemort would finally be dead he'd be of age anyhow. But it wouldn't have mattered even if he had broken the law; Voldemort would finally have been gone for good.

What with all the things that had been happening lately, Harry had totally forgotten about this letter, but he found he was relieved. He would have gone on with his quest anyhow – it didn't matter; the school was closed – but this made things much easier.

And now he could finally go get his Apparition license. He'd been getting better, but now, he knew, he'd be able to do it legally at last. And it's

However, his happy thoughts were quickly interrupted by Mr. Weasley. The thin, balding man was leafing through that day's copy of the _Daily Prophet, _and after coming to the third page he gasped. Looking up, alarmed, Harry squinted, trying to read the words typed neatly onto the parchment newspaper.

"What is it, Dad?" Beside Harry, Ron frowned. "Are you all right?"

"Look what it says," said Mr. Weasley, and slapped the paper down on the table before the trio.

The headline said it all: _SUCESSFUL ENTREPRENEURS ALMOST ARRESTED_. Hermione skimmed quickly through the article, while Ron read it at a slower pace; Harry feeling sick in his stomach, didn't even bother glancing at it. He knew perfectly well what it was about – Fred and George. The two had broken the law by experimenting with Veritaserum, but they could have saved themselves if George hadn't advertised its usage in their products so darn blatantly.

"What?" Ron stared at Fred and George now as they sat across the table, quietly sipping twin glasses of mead. "Did you have to pay a fine?"

Loftily, without missing a beat, Fred waved a letter before Ron's nose. "Look," he declared calmly, eyes closed as he took a delicate sip of the alcoholic beverage with his free hand, "it's a letter from the Ministry."

"How amusing," added George, as naturally as if he'd rehearsed it – but, then again, being George, he was always ready for anything that came his way. "Look, it says – it says, mind – that they're forcing us to pay them an abnormally large amount of Galleons, Sickles and Knuts."

"But we're not going to pay for it, are we, George?" Fred set the letter down on the table, but it was clear that several pairs of eyes were staring angrily at them. "After all, why pay when we've broken a law as foolish as that one?"

Mrs. Weasley's eyes were steely, her voice tipped in anger. "Fred, George," she began, glaring them down angrily, "are you even aware that you have broken the wizarding law? That law—"

"The Code for the Restriction of Unsupervised Usage of Veritaserum," interrupted Mr. Weasley, looking gravely at the twins.

"—was an important, reasonable, sensible law. You two so tactfully broke it, and you were aware of it, too. And now you're not going to pay even when you know you broke the law."

A person could almost sense the silence that followed resonating off the furniture. The ring of Weasleys, Harry and Hermione continued to stare at the twins; not one word was spoken. Harry thought briefly, feeling the tension mounting. On one count, Fred and George shouldn't have used Veritsaerum for their experimentations; on the other, they could have gotten away with it if they hadn't told anyone. He knew they had done wrong, of course, but, with the wedding a few days away and the tension building ever upward, he had a feeling that this wasn't a very good idea.

"We wouldn't have gotten in trouble with this 'law,' as you so intelligently put it, Mum," began Fred, "if—"

"—that idiot _Prophet _bloke hadn't squealed on us," finished George, looking both their parents evenly in the eye. "After all—"

"—who does that kind of moronic thing?"

Fred's question hung in the air, penetrating through their hearts and minds. Harry hoped this would all be over before it could turn into a row; he knew just how angry Mrs. Weasley could get at times, and Fred and George how unreasonable. So he waited, feeling Ron stiffen and Hermione recoil on either side of him.

"Who does that? Who does that? WHO DOES THAT?!"

A row exploded between the twins and Mrs. Weasley for the umpteenth time, and the others silently fled.

--------------------------

"Ron, Fred and George have to stop being so foolish," admonished Hermione.

"Yeah, well, just how are we supposed to do that?" Ron grunted irritably, turning over in his bed. It was that evening, and the sound of indignant voices was filtering in through the twins' room. Arthur was grimly trying to convince them that what they had done was wrong and they had to pay the price, as well as their newfound success and fame had been making them cruel, uppity, pig-headed, and careless. The sound of the twins' protesting loudly was painful enough to the ears, though Hermione's relentless advice-drilling was eve more annoying. Ron was in bed, trying to sleep (and, it must be said, he was quite aware of this move's fruitlessness), while Hermione was drilling him. For once, Harry agreed with her and was expanding, elaborating on what she said.

"They're— They're different," explained Harry with an angry jerk of the head to their room, spiraling a few stories below them through the Burrow. "They're not the same anymore, you know, Ron. The rest of you really have to talk to them out of it, tell them that they broke the law and now they have to pay for what they did."

"That's what you say." Ron buried his head in the pillow, evidently trying to ignore them – which proved to be to no avail, as they all knew it would. When he spoke, his words were muffled by the tough fabric. "What can we possibly do? They won't listen to us – they've changed, like you said, Harry."

"Yeah, but what's that got to do with it?" Hermione looked impatiently from one friend to the other. "Ron, they're being prats. They're— They're even worse than Percy now. Imagine that. They're being even worse than _Percy_ is. They won't listen, but that doesn't mean you can't try. They used to be so— so cheerful before, and you know it." Finished, he looked, confused, at Ron, and Hermione went into detail.

"Look, Ron," he continued, his words and eyes meant for Ronald Weasley and Ronald Weasley alone, "what Hermione's trying to say is that they've changed, but they're still the same, in a sense." He paused, leaving Ron to feel guilty for not having done anything about his brothers. "They're still the same, under all that bad stuff that they never used to have this much of before." He went on more hastily, trying to appeal to Ron's better nature. "Listen, if we work together we'll be able to change them to what they used to be. They broke the law, yeah, but they can— They can do community service or something."

At that Ron burst out laughing. "'Community service'? What's that?"

"It's not funny, Ron." Hermione stared pointedly at her best friend as he rolled around in bed. "It's what Muggles who have broken minor laws do as punishment."

But Ron's chortles ran out loud and clear as he rolled away from them in bed. "Community service…. Muggles are so queer…. I'm surprised they've never gotten onto us…. They make their lives so complicated…."

"Ron." Hermione's voice was sharp, even, deadly. "Ron, are you even listening to us?"

Ron didn't answer. Finally, it came:

Snoring. Loud, fake snoring. Hermione buried her head in the pillow, her cheeks pink.


	12. A Flower in the Burrow

Come the following day, peace seemed to have settled over the Burrow, though not all was well. It was a time for punishment.

Fred and George, seated at the kitchen table, were facing their parents with set jaws. Molly and Arthur, their expressions grim, were staring severely back at them, hard and unrelenting. Fred fidgeted, making as if to say something, but an accusing glare from Molly silenced him on the spot. George said nothing, both defiance and fear plain in his eyes. From the hallway, the other Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione were listening – or, more specifically, eavesdropping with Extendable Ears Hermione's he had thoughtfully remember to bring along.

"You know, we really shouldn't be doing this," Hermione whispered furiously as Ron listened intently to the words pouring forth from behind the wall. "It's not right."

"She's right, Ron," affirmed Bill with a nod. "It's not a good thing for us to be doing. We have to let them alone so they can solve it by themselves."

"Yeah, Ron," added Charlie, with a nervous glance at the wall. He rubbed his ears, as if deciding whether to listen in on the private conversation or not. "We should let Mum and Dad sort this out with the twins on their own. They're going to learn sooner or later."

"Why?" retorted Ron. "Now be quiet – I'm trying to listen."

"Yeah, you lot." Kneeling beside him, Ginny watched the wall intently, as if she could see the other four behind it. "Now quiet. We need to hear what they're saying."

Bill and Charlie shook their heads, sighing exasperatedly. "Imagine what Percy would think if he was here," murmured Bill.

Ginny shushed them with a wave of her hand, and, in a split-second decision, Hermione decided to listen as well. Harry, having debated over it, joined she, Ron and Ginny by the wall while Bill and Charlie reluctantly lurked in the background behind him, the fleshy strings inserted firmly into their ears. Finally, the words coming through from the other room were clear, clean and easy to listen to, albeit shocking.

"Fred, George," began Arthur sternly, "you broke the wizarding law by making that Veritaserum."

"Yes," Molly picked up, strangely calm and not blazing angry as it was when punishing the twins, "you know that. And it's wrong."

"What do you have to say for yourselves?" Arthur's voice was, strong. "What are you going to do, boys?"

"Not pay them," Fred and George chimed in unison.

There was what sounded like a sigh. The others looked at each other, rolling their eyes. Finally, accompanied by the sound of elbows hitting wood, Molly went on in a voice that barely contained her anger. "Why, may I ask?"

"Because that bloke was an idiot for reporting us in the first place."

"Because we don't deserve it."

"Because it was a moronic law anyway."

"Because no one say that git even cares."

"Boys, are you aware how much you've changed since you opened shop last summer?"

"Changed? For the better? Yes, I always did realize our ideas were killer for moneymaking."

"See? We're not so poor anymore. We can give you much more, if you want."

"Fred, George, that's not what Arthur meant. You've changed – for the worse."

A profound silence emanated after the last three words.

"You've become— Well, this may seem hard on you, boys, but you've become – to use your word – 'prats.'"

"Mean. That's basically it."

"Mean? Why, I'm shocked!"

"I must say I'm astonished, too! How does ignoring a stupid law like that one qualify us as mean?"

"Mean? Us? The ones who cheered you in times of sadness, the ones who worked hard in times of danger, the ones who—"

"Well, you're not doing it anymore, are you?"

There was another deep silence.

Charlie was absorbed in listening now, and even Bill's grudging will to not listen in on the four of them had now been stilled. Harry, Ron and Ginny continued to listen, showing the same desire as they had before, while Hermione bit her lip but didn't let the string in her ear.

"So, there are some things we want you two to do."

"Oh, joy – more work!"

"First of all," Arthur went on as if there had been no interruption, "we want you to pay your service to the Ministry of Magic."

"And to do that, we have to--?"

"—pay them. Pay them the fat lot of money you didn't want to because of that 'idiot bloke.'"

"Fine, we'll do it. Anything else, or you planning to drill us in for it for the rest of our lives?"

"No, since another large portion of that must be spent whipping you into shape. No, more importantly, the Ministry wants the rest of the ingredients you used to make the potion confiscated."

"Done – if any are left, that is. We were working on it a few months before we opened the shop, after all. It could have been used by now."

"Can we still make potions?"

There was the sound of riffling parchment and the pull of a quill through paper. "No. Once you return to the shop a few Ministry officials are going to drop in and temporarily remove your license to brew any, and make you sign a contract."

"They're not giving you a choice, so just sign it for them."

"The license ban will only last a few months, so you should be all right for a while."

"What? How are we supposed to do that? We need to keep making potions for our shop, Mum."

"Yeah, Mum – how could you put us through this pain?"

"Boys, it isn't your mother's fault. It says so right here, right here in this bold black ink."

"Fine, fine – we'll do it."

"Good." The voice was crisp, clean, final; the eavesdropping group glanced uneasily at one another. "And, in the end, the Ministry wants a portion of the profits earned from anything for which you employed the use of Veritaserum."

"What? Do any of you realize how much money that's going to be taken away from our shop? And, not to mention, it's going to line the Ministry's pockets? I think they have enough domination over us already, thank you very much."

"Yeah… That potion's going to be a great moneymaker; I know it… And it was only one of three things we used the potion for… They're all going to earn us a fat lot of money, though, so we'll be able to go on…"

"Yeah, Mum, Dad… We'll be able to go on – albeit tragically." An exaggerated sigh. "With the Ministry taking away I don't know how much of our profits on three products and all…"

"It says seventy percent here."

"And besides, Fred and George, it's your fault for not obeying what you knew perfectly well was a wizarding law. You broke it, and now you have to pay."

"No, it's George's fault for blabbing it to that entire crowd the other day. Without him that man wouldn't have been able to report us to the Ministry."

"No, Fred, it's your fault for wanting to use that stuff in the first place. You knew you were breaking the law, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but you didn't try to stop me, now did you?"

"Boys! Stop quarrelling." Arthur had raised his voice, not loudly but with enough discipline for the clamor to come to a halt. "It's over and done with. Do what this letter from the Ministry tells you to—" there was the sound of crinkling parchment "—and then work on being the best people you can. It's going to be a long, hard, winding road for you, and I'll help you work hard on it, as will Molly. Now behave yourselves at the wedding tomorrow, for your training has already begun."

"Training? What do you mean, 'training?' Do you understand what they're talking about, Fred?"  
"No, I'm not. But, on the other hand, I guess it's not important—"

"Boys, that's where you're mistaken. It's very important."

"Enough already! This discussion is closed."

There were the sounds of people getting up, of chairs being pushed into a table. The crowd scattered quickly; Hermione gestured for them to remove the Ears. Once in the hallway with Harry, Ron and Ginny, she appealed to three of them.

"What do you think is going to happen?" she asked, voice low. "Do you think Fred and George will—?"

"No, I'm sure they'll do what they have to." Ginny's voice was calm, not worried. "Trust me, Hermione," she said in response to Hermione's uncertain gaze. "This is Fred and George we're talking about. They always learn." She turned to Ron, the desperate look in her eyes not matching his voice. "They wouldn't break the law and not pay for their mistakes. And they really do love Mum; of course they'd listen to what she tells us. Right?"

Ron blinked, not responding, so Harry decided to take initiative and answered for him. "Er— Well, yeah, I think so," he replied, overwhelmed at first. "But – er – I think we should help them. The whole wizarding world has been affected by Voldemort—"

Ron winced, coming back to life. "Don't say the name!" he hissed.

"Well, because of that it's not entirely their fault." Harry went on, sensing that Ron, Hermione and Ginny were hanging onto his every word with bated breath. "I mean, Ron, look at it this way: the wizarding – and Muggle – worlds are in danger. Danger so big that before long the Muggles will find out about it, too." He paused, looking them both deeply in the eyes. "Every day, there's something happening, something that's being reported in the _Prophet _for everyone to see: deaths, disappearances, shops closing down, money being lost because the economy is going downhill. Fred and George – like you, I guess – never liked being poor, did they?"

Ginny mumbled, shaking her head. "No…. They never did…."

"See, that's exactly it." His voice steady, his motion solid, Harry held up a hand. "Now that they're making so much money and the world is in so much danger, Fred and George don't want to give it up so easily." He paused, searching for the words. "The war is affecting them like it's affecting us all."

"You know, Harry, for someone who could never understand girls properly, you're doing quite well when it comes to humanity." Hermione smiled, satisfied. "I think that, unlike Ron, your emotional range is bigger than that of a teaspoon."

"How do you remember that?" said Ron, both angry and incredulous. Hermione smirked at him, but their light mood dropped when Harry resumed.

"See, like I said, it's affecting the whole wizarding world – we're all in danger here, and some people don't even know it. But, before long," – here his hand clenched into a fist – "everyone is. And the Muggles are going to have to help us."

Silence followed his words. Hermione nodded, as did Ron and Ginny. "Yes…." they murmured in unison.

Harry sighed, turning away. "Of course, what I don't get is why – why Percy did what he did, I mean. He was always so— Well, you know what he was like. He

was—"

"Percy," finished Ron, looking stricken. "I mean, Percy was always a prat – Fred and George were right about that, of course—"

"Ron!" interjected Hermione angrily.

"—but even he never seemed stupid enough to do something like that," Ron went on, ignoring the indignant Hermione. "I mean, I had to split away from you, if I was to do anything he wrote to us about." He barked with laughter. "'Sever ties' with you, my eye…."

"Well, he didn't want to put his family in danger," reasoned Hermione sensibly. She'd always been the only one ever to make Percy shut it for a while, and with their— their mania for not breaking rules or getting bad marks (though, after landing herself with the disastrous duo, Hermione had done quite a lot of the former) to a certain degree, she seemed one of the few who could understand him. "I mean, that was really rotten of him, but maybe he didn't want to be so — well, you know – so cold."

Ron looked at Hermione pathetically. Shaking his head, he rolled his eyes. "Hermione, will you ever understand? Percy actually wanted to be so – so 'cold,' as you so cleverly put it, to Harry. He thought he was insane, because of that Skeeter woman, remember."

"I wouldn't mind if people said that again," stated Harry, voice low.

They gaped. "But, Harry," began Hermione, flabbergasted, "how could you not? She said horrible things about you – horrible, slandering, lying, evil things. How could you not—?"

Harry shook his head. when he spoke, his voice was low, and without a shadow of a doubt he meant exactly what he said. "It doesn't matter anymore." Ron and Hermione continued to gape, but he pressed on. "Don't you see?" he went on, an odd glint in his eye. "It doesn't matter anymore what people say about me, or what they think of me. What matters is that I kill Voldemort—"

"_Don't say the name!_" hissed Ron again, his face white.

"—and that, after it's done, that he stays that way." Harry shifted his gaze to Ron, speaking earnestly, truthfully. "Ron – it doesn't matter anymore. It's just a name. A name of a Dark wizard who's going to die. It doesn't matter anymore, Ron; it's just a name."

Ron still seemed spooked, but he nodded slowly, carefully. "I— I guess you're right. I mean," he went on, growing more confident with every word, "it _is_ just a name."

"He is." Ginny nodded firmly. "I don't care what anyone says," she said fiercely, laying her shoulder warm against his arm, "I'm going to stay with Harry no matter what. I really don't care; it just doesn't matter anymore, as long as You— as long as V-V-Voldemort is killed."

Harry looked at her admiringly, a smile tugging his lips. "I always knew you had it in you," he murmured.

Ron and Hermione glanced at each other hesitantly, wondering what was going to happen. Would one of them explode, saying they didn't want the other one there? Would one of them push the other one away, saying they didn't want the other one there? Would one of them run away, saying they didn't want the other one there?

But no. Of course not. Instead they stood there for a few moments, gazing lovingly into each other's eyes, and then the spell was broken. Ginny retreated, standing close to Harry. Fingering the wand in his pocket, Harry looked the three of them full in the faces before continuing, his voice once more filled with a raw determination – a raw determination to kill Voldemort.

"Listen," he implored, jaw set, "I've seen Voldemort, I've faced him, I know what he's like. He's killing whenever he wants, why he wants, and he doesn't care who he kills, not unless they're some sort of scum who serves under him. We can't blame Fred and George entirely for what they did, since all these things are happening to the worlds, wizarding and Muggle. We just have to try and help them, like we should do with everyone else."

Silence. Finally Hermione, nodding bravely, shifted slightly so that she was standing right beside Ron. "Yes, Harry. We understand."

------------------------------------

The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, the sky was blue, the gnomes were pattering, and Phlegm was being her usual bossy self.

"Stand there, Charlie, and make sure I don' see Bill until it is time."

Ginny giggled and rolled over in bed. Fleur Delacour, Bill's French fiancée had arrived the past night, while she had been in bed, thinking about the twins and Percy. It was finally the day of the wedding. Ginny didn't much like Fleur – or, as the other Weasleys called her, Phlegm – very much, but, for one thing, the part-Veela clearly deserved to be with Bill, and, for another, even Ginny knew that she had to draw the line sometimes. Hearing the stream of voices emanating from the kitchen, she sat up in bed. Remembering the conversation she'd had with Harry, Ron and Hermione the day before, the twins as they were and the dark times that lay ahead, she dressed quickly, scolding herself for thinking of such things on a day like this. Today was a day for happiness, celebration. It would be their last day of celebration for a long time, come to think of it.

Trying to push nasty thoughts of the Dark Lord out of her mind, Ginny opened the bedroom window and strolled over to the door. Posing a hand on the doorknob, she listened for the sounds of Phlegm's commanding voice and grinned when it came to her ears..

"I was theenking that you four could stand in two circles, weeth the others, like so, during the wedding." Fleur's throaty voice was accompanied by the sound of shuffling feet and some grumbling complaints. "While Bill and I dance, you could sway around us. No! Stay there. Stay there and listen to me – I have important theengs to tell you."

This was followed by more grunting, but Phlegm had her way in the end. "Wear zeez dress robes, so zat I can notice you all doing what you're supposed to." Dress robes ruffled and steps ran lightly across the floor. "In zees order, to make a rainbow: yellow, orange, red, green, pu'ple, blue and darker blue. It's perfect!"

Wondering how Phlegm did it – that is to say, how in the world she bossed everyone around without Mum repeatedly telling her off – Ginny opened the door and stepped through the doorway. Noticing that most of the Weasleys were already down with Fleur in the living room, whose furniture had been pushed once more against the wall, Ginny tiptoed quietly down the stairs and peeked into the doorway. Judging by the open doors and empty beds, she had reasoned that they were with her, and indeed they were – except her dad.

Ginny turned around from her position in the kitchen and walked over to select still through slightly the table, where Dad was seated, quietly riffling through that day's _Prophet._ "What are you doing, Dad?" she asked, standing by his chair. "Why aren't with you with Phlegm and the others in the living room?"

Dad turned a page and set the paper on the table, chastising her mildly. "Don't call her that, Ginny," he admonished, frowning.

"Well, why aren't you with her and the others?" Ginny persisted teasingly.

Arthur's neck reddened. "Well—er— You see, Ginny, I—er—"

"—find she's too—too full of herself." Ginny grinned. "Not setting a good example for your youngest child, are you, Dad?"

"Er—" His ears still slightly red, Dad folded up the paper and laid it back on the table. "I— Er, yes, Ginny, you're right." He smiled faintly, looking dazed. "Yes, I think we had both better go see Fleur. She'll especially want to see you, I'm sure."

Ginny smiled back and followed Dad as he left the room. Soon, arriving before Phlegm, she noticed that the part-Veela looked even more beautiful than usual, which was actually making saliva trickle down Ron's jowls (without his realizing it, of course).

"Ah. Ginny. Stand here. I was just explaining to everyone. Come 'ere, because I want to show you what you're to wear for zees event."

Ginny walked into place before Fleur while she gestured impatiently for Dad to stand back with Mum. "No parents. It— It does not look as presentable for zem to be at the front."

"Now listen here, Fleur," Molly began, an angry spark in her eye.

Phlegm gesticulated impatiently. "A joke, as you say. It was just a joke."

But it was clear from the expression on her face that it wasn't. Yes, she was a much better person than she had once been, but being 'presentable' was evidently still important to her. Ginny, however, wasn't done. Pushing Fred and George away from her – she hadn't realized it, but they were being compliant and accepting for once (a change for the better, though most uncharacteristic) – Ginny stood right before Fleur. "Really, Fleur, what do you think you're doing?" she addressed Phlegm, rising to her full height. "Just telling my parents what to do like that? Who are you to know?"

"I— I theenk I should zank you very much…." Despite her strong words, Ginny knew she had won. Still glowering levelly at Phlegm, she stepped back into place between the twins, waiting impatiently for Phlegm to continue. She'd changed, true, and hadn't meant to have been so commanding to Mum and Dad, but now she was forced to ponder, Ginny instinctively knew. There was no point in pursuing the matter further; Phlegm would learn sooner or later, and come to better terms with the Weasleys, eventually – all in good time.

Before long, though, Fleur had recovered her usual Fleur dynamism. "All right, zen, Ginny, 'ere. Do you see zeez dress robes?" She held a pair of pink dress robes to the light. "I would like you to wear zeez, and zees—" she gestured to a pair of golden sandals and a matching headband lying innocently in the corner "—while you are to be my bridesmaid, along weeth Gabrielle."

"Gabrielle?" Ginny had seen Fleur's younger sister during the Triwizard Tournament, but she'd never held a conversation with her. "Is she going to come, too?"

At that, Fleur laughed. "She is already 'ere, getting ready at that pub you call the Leaky Cauldron." She paused, her tone becoming haughty as she once had been. "I've seen much better ones in ze dingier parts of France, by ze way."

"Fleur." Dad's voice was patient, yet his sternness shone clearly through; Ginny felt happy for her father at taking a stab at shushing his bossy daughter in-law to-be. "Please don't degrade everything we have here in England, Fleur. I know it isn't quite what you're used to, but to be honest we try the best we can. And things are getting pretty dangerous here as well."

Had Ginny not known better, she would have thought the last bit was sarcasm – then again, Dad was not sarcastic, and in addition his tone was as severe as she had ever heard it. He was simply mild-mannered, quiet, law-abiding Arthur Weasley, right now in the process of gazing strictly at Fleur from where he was standing in front of her. Fleur nodded at last, for once losing her confidence – which surprised Ginny, though she supposed anything was possible – before quickly regaining herself. "All right, then." Drawing herself to her full height, Phlegm nodded and gestured to Ginny. "Any'ow, do you mind trying on zeez dress robes?"

Surprising. "Took you long enough," retorted Ginny, but at a sharp glance from Mum she rapidly shut it. She shook her head. "No, I'll do it."

"Good. Zen zees can finally work." Fleur smiled and, for the first time, she seemed genuinely happy. "All right, zen. After ze ceremony is over, zen we will have a reception. A grand reception it will be – I have many friends."

"More like admirers." Hermione rolled her eyes, and Ginny stifled a giggle.


	13. Beginning to a New Beginning

Fleur's voice, bossy and commanding with a touch of worry, drifted through his ears, but Harry ignored it, concentrated only on the thin slip of silver-beaten Muggle plastic in his hands. This was far more important.

It was his Apparition license, which, at long last, he had received earlier that day. It was now the eve of the wedding, and Fleur, uptight and anxious, was busy telling everyone that it was absolutely important that she'd not see Bill's face when he'd arrive in a few hours. Or, as she put it, "It eez of vital importance zat I do not do zis, for it eez bad luck uzzerwise."

Harry wasn't listening to her from where he was sitting by the kitchen doorway, instead staring simply at the piece of plastic in his hands, his thoughts running at high speed through his mind. He had finally earned this, by what small training he'd done in Diagon Alley before heading over to the Dursleys' after receiving the letter. He'd gotten it; it hadn't been easy, for sure, but, then again, he hadn't been as surprised as he'd expected when he'd gotten it on the first try. He had finally done it. But still….

_Well, I was able to since I brought Dumbledore _– a familiar feeling closed his heart – _and me back from where we were getting the Horcrux last month._ Harry closed his eyes, hands tight about the silver-lined plastic card – "It's said that the goblins actually forge that from molten Sickles," as Hermione had told him, upon being given it a few hours ago– Apparition license as he thought of everything he had done. Not only had he finally gotten himself the Apparition license, but he now no longer needed the Dursleys' blood-protection; he was free to do as he pleased, but as far as he knew he could no longer call that place home.

_Why would I want to?_ Harry thought, frowning with eyes that were still closed. _They never wanted me in their house – the only reason I could call the place home was because I had no choice. They didn't care about me; the only reason they took care of me was because they had no choice…._

_But no_, came a small voice in his mind – his conscience. _Yes, they didn't really have a choice, but then again, they could always have tried to deny it. They could have just shut their door and left me on the doorstep, or sent me off to an orphanage. It might not have worked, but they could still have tried it. And they didn't._

Harry's eyes snapped open and he shot forward from where he'd been leaning against the chair's hardwood back. _I never thought about it that way before._ Confused, he repeatedly thumb the license's silver lining, mind reeling. Sure enough, he realized, it was true. Regardless of any feelings of hate and rage they'd felt toward him – and they definitely had – they'd still taken him in, had allowed him to live under their roof, had given him a temporary home. And, even if they'd done it grudgingly, against their will, they'd still done it, regardless if they'd wanted to or not. They'd done – yes, they hadn't really had a choice, but, then again….

Harry leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes again. He'd never realized it, but, truly, regardless of how they'd treated him, the Dursleys felt something deep in their hearts for him.

And any protection living in their house for the past sixteen years had now evaporated, was gone, had disappeared into thin air. Harry was alone – one by one, those he'd loved were gone – his parents, Sirius, Dumbledore. Now he didn't even have a home anymore, and, in he couldn't head back to the way things had been. He'd said farewell to the Dursleys once and forever, for the last time.

Harry sighed, not knowing what to think. On the one hand, they'd given him a home, even though they hadn't wanted to, but, on the other hand, they'd taken it upon themselves to make his life as miserable as possible. On the one hand, they'd let him go to Hogwarts; on the other, perhaps the only reason had been because even Uncle Vernon had known not to mess with the wizarding world.

But, then again, no matter how much they'd hated him, thought Harry, his thoughts pushing through at a fast pace, Aunt Petunia had shown him mercy, had shown him that even she could bend her ways for her nephew, even it just this once. She'd told him the truth about his mother, the truth about things as they'd been, the truth about that fateful Halloween years in the past.

She deserved, if nothing else, what her husband and son deserved – a feeling of thanks. A small feeling of thanks, but a feeling of thanks nonetheless. _After all_, acknowledged Harry's wise little conscience, forcing him to examine the light he'd first glimpsed a few minutes ago under a scrutinizing eye, _they did take me in. They didn't have to. Yes, they didn't really have a choice, but, then again, I guess they did feel something aside from hate and rejection for me. I mean, they let me go to Hogwarts and let me stay at their house during the holidays – they didn't send me off somewhere else, even though they hated me. It might not seem apparent, but they did feel something foraybe not much, but they still did. And Uncle Vernon did question when Dumbledore told him I'd be of adult wizarding age this year – maybe he didn't want me to leave…? No, probably not, but they feel something for me, I suppose…._

Leaning back as far as he could in the chair, Harry sighed and closed his eyes. Well, if nothing else, they'd at least given him a place to live – and he no longer had that protection. It was gone now, disappeared into thin air, blown away by the winds of time. It was gone now, never to return again, and there was nothing he could do to bring it back.

But did he need it anymore?

_No_, Harry thought fiercely, making another realization as he stared down his Apparition license for the umpteenth time that evening, _people have worked as hard as they could to keep me alive. Mum even sacrificed her life just so I could live. If I continued to live with the Dursleys, I'd be living on protection I don't need anymore – protection I shouldn't have anymore. I'll do it on my own. I can take care of myself now, and, dang it, that's what I'm going to do._

But he couldn't help feeling a soft jab of sadness press at his heart as his fingers closed around the strip of plastic clutched in his hand. Things always had to change, but sometimes he wished they wouldn't.

-------------------------------

Before he was fully aware of it, he was standing with the Weasley in front of the old Weasley fireplace. They were all dressed in their finest ceremonial garb – and for once Ron was keeping his mouth shut when it came to his maroon dress robes. Standing imperiously at their forefront before the roaring flames was Fleur, white gown trailing down to the floor and a few feet onward. Despite her stately appearance, though, she was busy ordering them around as usual. She'd spent some small time in the bathroom earlier on, dressing herself in the full in just minutes; it was a wonder how she'd done it in record time, especially to Mrs. Weasley. "Well, eef you must know, anytheeng is possible," as Fleur had huffed in response to the questioning look in her eyes a few minutes ago.

Following in a straight line behind her were the others, all save Bill; he was to Apparate shortly after they left so as not to see his fiancée before they arrived at the wedding hall, Mixed Masters. They intend it to look more than ready for the occasion; Harry had even caught Ginny ogling at him in the hallway before embarrassedly running with a hasty excuse about laundry an hour ago.

The wedding hall was in Ottery St. Catchpole, not too far from here, but, thinking about it, Harry wanted to practice Apparition some more. He knew they wouldn't always have access to a fireplace and Floo powder on their journey to find the Horcruxes and kill Voldemort, so he felt that he needed to practice. Now, of course, was evidently not the time, so he waited patiently while the cluster swarmed into a line before him, each with a comment, remark or wisecrack of their own.

"Well, I do hope this goes all right." Mrs. Weasley was hurriedly swiping through the contents of her purse with one hand while reaching for the pot of Floo powder on the mantle with the other. "I mean, it being a wedding and all."

"Don't worry, Molly; everything will be fine," Mr. Weasley assured her, patting her shoulder with a comforting hand. "And even if it doesn't, the important thing is that Bill and Fleur love each other and will be united in holy matrimony today."

"Yeah, Mum, he'll be here; it's not like he can't Apparate." Charlie grinned at his mother, darkening slightly; it was common knowledge that he had failed his Apparition test the first time around. He had long finished his schooling, of course, but he could still remember those painful, nerve-wracking examinations. "He'll be fine."

"Yeah, and even if prat Percy—" began Fred.

"—is even more of a prat than before, that's just because we've forgotten just how bad he is by now." George finished the sentence for him, shrugging dismissively.

"You know, maybe he isn't so bad anymore." Ginny crossed her arms. The line moved slowly along when Fleur scattered Floo Powder into the fire, watched the flames overcome by sparkling emerald and Mrs. Weasley stepped through. "I mean, we've been treating him badly enough, haven't we?"

Harry agreed, and not privately. "Yeah, c'mon. Maybe Percy's changed, become more mature. After all—"

But he felt Ron's hand on his shoulder, saw the grimace on his best friend's face as he winced in emotional pain. "Mate, it's not worth a try," he said, still flinching. "I mean— Well, remember what Dad said? He's changed. He's not the same anymore. He'll change in time, I guess—" his voice wasn't as doubtful as his words would suggest, for some reason or other "—but either way I'd wager that Fred and George will get used to him soon enough."

"Why, though?" asked Hermione, watching as Arthur passed through the fiery portal. "I remember Percy, Ron. He— Well, he was Percy. He wasn't nasty, just— pompous."

"Yeah, I know." Ron was nodding, eyes closed, sadness on his face. "I know what you mean, Hermione. He was my brother."

"Was?" Hermione was confused. "He still is."

But it was Harry answered, barely aware of Charlie crying out and stepping into the hearth; he'd seen it so many times since that first try after first year. "Only by blood, though. After a while, Hermione, you just don't feel like people are related to you anymore because they're so cruel to you."

Hermione nodded slowly, advancing as Mrs. Weasley stepped through the fireplace. "I understand." Thoughtfully, she added, "But— Oh, I don't know—" Her voice was dismayed. "I just—"

"What is it?" asked Ron softly – too softly, thought Harry, and a grin overtook his face like a fire a forest, surprising even himself. Luckily, the other two didn't notice.

"Well, Percy was never — er — evil." Hermione paused, carefully choosing her words. "I mean, he was – well, like I said, Percy. He— He wouldn't— I don't know—"

"I don't know, but what he did in fifth year seemed– Well, to tell the truth, it seemed intense, but that's not the word I'd choose." She was flustered now, growing more and more nervous as Ginny took her turn through the flames, looking confusedly back at them before being engulfed by the green fire. "I mean— Well, Ron, you're his brother. You know."

Something suddenly hit Harry down hard:

"I think I understand!" he exclaimed, and Ron and Hermione looked oddly at him. With the others gone off to the wedding hall and Bill in his room, ready to Apparate shortly afterward, they were completely alone. "Is it possible that Percy is under the Imperius Curse?" The words came faster than he was expecting, so it was with less of a surprise that he went on at the same speedy tempo. "I remember when Crouch did it on me in fourth year. I was able to resist it, but it was hard. Percy— Well, the rest of you were doing what he wanted you to do. I bet Percy wouldn't have been able to resist it."

"Harry!" Ron crowed hoarsely, thumping Harry on the shoulder, "you know, you could be onto something here!"

Hermione, however, had fallen silent. "It's possible, I guess," she mused quietly, pensively. "But think about it: how would the Death Eaters himself have done it to Percy? He leaves the Ministry at the same time your dad does, doesn't he, Ron? So how would they have been able to ambush him outside in plain evening with wizards crowding all about them?"

"That's it though." Ron's voice was strained; he was thinking hard, face scrunched, and Harry wondered just how much everyone had changed since he had started sixth year. "We don't know where Percy went after he finished work. He never came home, remember?"

"Yes, but what if the person he's staying with – his roommate, I suppose – is also the Imperius Curse?" Hermione, now completely caught up in the excitement, was bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. "They could have been made to put him under it, too. Maybe— Maybe he's even been put under other things."

She didn't mention what those 'other things' could possibly be. So didn't the others.

"Yeah, but how do we know that?" argued Ron. Harry, noticing that his friend was getting smarter. Seeing as how their longtime friendship had survived through the years, but also that he'd become, in turn, without realizing it, more of a Gryffindor – was being careful, keeping out of the conversation. Ron Weasley was now Auror material. Hermione's almost always been, of course, and he was going to become one either way, but now, as earned out—

Harry abruptly cut his thoughts off, confused. Why did he keep seeing everyone to new eyes like this? Trying to ignore it, he concentrated once more and Ron Hermione.

"After all, it's not like the Death Eaters just run around, blasting everyone out of their houses, right? And, don't forget, Perfect Percy is proud and independent. He wouldn't want to live with anyone if it could get him in trouble with the Ministry somehow."

"Maybe he's not." Harry could actually sense the excitement in the air. "Maybe the person he's staying with – if there is one, of course – is a Death Eater under Polyjuice Potion, or something else. Maybe he keeps Transfiguring himself; maybe he's a Metamirphagus." She stopped, thinking. "And Percy technically wouldn't even need a roommate, right? So maybe, knowing how close he was to Harry—"

"In a sense." Harry glanced at Ron. "No offense, Ron, but the Death Eaters think you lot are blood traitors. It would take a lot for Death Eater to room with the Weasley, even if it could help their side somehow, right? It could be that it wasn't even a Death Eater; maybe it could have been someone with a grudge against the Weasleys."

"Not again!" Hermione clapped her forehead, jittering in place. "There are so many ideas about what could have happened! "I mean—" she hesitated, biting her lip "—we have no choice right now. We could tell someone from the Ministry later, but we need to get to the wedding." She turned toward the fire, but didn't take a step into the flames.

Harry voiced what was all on their minds. "We'll see for sure at the wedding."

But, though they all knew the problem with that, they mentioned it. After all, someone who could fake being Percy – a cold, cruel Percy, but still Percy nonetheless – for over two years without anyone blowing his cover before now could surely lie. Even if they saw that Percy had changed, it could still be an impostor.

But they didn't discuss it. Instead, they went, one at a time, from the fire into the Mixed Masters Wedding Hall.

------------------------------------------

Harry gaped at what he saw.

He was standing on the rich plush red carpet of an enormous church, in front of a row of fireplaces arranged neatly against the wall. The cavernous room's mirror ceiling reflected his shocked face back down to him – mouth open, eyes wide. Closing his mouth quickly in embarrassment, Harry turned around, noticing the benches lined up neatly in three rows, their utmost edges just brushing the cream walls. The podium up front was nothing but an angular stool, which, he supposed by the small wheel attached to the base, could be adjusted for clergymen of different statures. There was a pocket copy of the Bible lying on its surface, accompanied equally by an unobtrusive green book named 'Wizarding Marriages.' People had already begun to sit quietly in the pews, a few of them leafing through pamphlets that, as far as he could tell, detailed biographies of the engaged pair.

A stream of people were coming in through the doors, the black white-tagged collars resplendent on their necks, in addition to white wizards' robes on their backs. Harry wondered why Fleur and Bill would need more than one priest before he realized that these were probably helpers or those in training.

Harry took a seat with the Weasleys, at Mrs. Weasleys' insistence – "Come sit here, Harry, dear, they're going to start quite soon" – still looking intently around the hall. On the western wall, he caught sight of a mahogany door, polished till he could see the reflection of the people milling about caught in its light. It, he presumed, must lead to the reception hall. Sure enough, as its player had heard his very thoughts – though one could wonder why a musician would be a Legilimens – the light, enchanting tones of a harp wafted from behind the door to his ears. It was soon joined by the wayward, drifting notes of wind instruments; these, Harry realized, must have been the hired musicians. He absently wondered what the band – or, should the case be, orchestra – was named.

He allowed himself to be lost in thought, now, thinking about who would be there. Everyone related to Bill and Fleur, of course, as well as their friends, but there was something missing from the picture. He was the one they all had been thinking about the past few days, the one whose words had come into their minds many a time, the one who they didn't know if they could trust or not, the one who they now barely knew, period. He was the one who had changed so much through the years that it would be hard to believe it was him – if he came, that is. And his name was—

"Percy."

Mrs. Weasleys' lips moved, but her voice was barely audible. Standing before them was a tall young man, a tall young man who they would not have recognized had she not said his name. But he looked older than his age – lines ran across his forehead from having furrowed it too many times, a certain harness about his mouth. His expression was the grim, set expression of one far older than his years. The red hair he brushed away from his horn-rimmed spectacles was darker than they had remembered, dark with the grime and dirt that had gathered in it since the last time he had had a bath, which was probably a very long time ago. His skin was pale, and bringing has changed features into the light – pale from stress, fear, malnutrition and guilt. His face was sharp, angular – as Mr. Weasley had said, he'd indeed changed, and not for the better.

He extended a trembling hand; surprised but managing to control it well, Mrs. Weasley took it. They stood there for what seemed like an eternity, just standing there, holding each others' hands, oblivious to the babble and sway of the crowd chattering behind them.

Finally, Mrs. Weasley made a move. Percy was looking up into her eyes, his hand still shaking, she enfolded him in a hug. They stood there for even longer like that, a mother hugging her son, her son who had been lost but had now been found again. And as he stood there, with Mrs. Weasley's hands draped around his body, Percy's eyes sparkled with tears. Tears of sadness, tears of pain, tears of anguish. Slowly at first they trickled down from his eyes, staining his cheeks, and then, with a loud, shuddering sob, he buried his face in her shoulder. The sound of crying resonated from him, sobbing so loud that even Fred and George were brought to shame.

Finally, Percy's shuddering body went still. Mrs. Weasley, wiping the tears from her eyes, released him and stood up, looking down at him with pride shining in her eyes. "Percy," she said quietly, but the word was audible to everyone standing around them. "Percy, my son. You've come back."

Percy nodded, slowly rubbing his eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses. "Yes, Mother. I have."

Everyone stared at each other. Percy was strangely calm, taking them all in, and Harry knew that they had changed quite a lot since they had last spoken with him. But he wasn't just calm because he was thinking, drinking everything in; he was calm because he was also dwelling on the errors he'd committed in the past, mistakes that, no matter how hard they tried, could never be repaired. Mistakes that had ruined the lives of his family forever. Mistakes that had destroyed the ties between family and friends. No, he was calm because he was seeing himself through new eyes – like himself, Harry realized – eyes that saw everything calmly, that had become wise, that had matured.

Once more, Percy's lips moved. "I'm sorry."

Mr. Weasley appeared at his son's side, surveying him through bright eyes, eyes that were even brighter with tears. "Yes, son. We know. We're sorry too."

Percy nodded dumbly, a smile beginning to tug at his lips. "I understand."

And it was in that fashion that the Weasleys guided their newly found son back to the rows of pews, with Mrs. Weasley taking him under her wing as she would have no matter what the cost.


	14. Holy Matrimony

Sitting back in the pew, Percy pondered what had occurred a few minutes ago.

He'd come back, for good and true, but it was a changed Percy that now stood in his place. Gone was the pompous authority, the sharp glance, the look in his eyes that told you he wouldn't hesitate to take points from his own house. In his place was a quiet, thoughtful, pensive Percy. Now he had reformed, meekly following his parents' wishes to not respond to Fred and George's idiocy. He knew, and he obeyed. Looking at his face, Harry deduced that Percy knew this was all in the past; gone were all the arguments, the fights, the snapped ties of the Weasley family. In its place were new bonds, new ties that were stronger than ever, keeping them together in times of danger. But there was also something else in his eyes, something that Harry wasn't surprised to see since he'd seen it so many times reflected in the eyes of everyone he knew, including himself.

Guilt. Before Harry had been made out as a basket case in the Daily _Prophet_, before that disastrous fifth year, Percy had been decent to Harry, a fairly good acquaintance.

Since then, things had changed. It had been Percy's own fault for alienating himself from his family by suggesting that Ron sever those ties with his best friend. He had made a drastic mistake, a drastic mistake that had been created and fed on by both his anguish and the instinct to protect his family from one who seemed teetering on the verge of insanity as Harry. He had done wrong. He knew he'd done wrong, but, he also knew, he could change it – in time.

But, Harry saw, watching the calm and thoughtful young adult in the pew, it wasn't entirely Percy's fault. Guessing – but feeling secure that his guess hit the nail on the head – Harry knew that, when he had brought forth from the graveyard news of Voldemort's return, that Percy had believed. No one else in the Ministry save Mr. Weasley had believed, but Percy had. He had known that the world was on the brink of destruction, of Apocalypse itself. He had believed, and he had known. That had affected his judgment, clouding his reasoning; things were recently becoming so dangerous so that a wizard would not even be able to set foot outside his house alone after dark. Percy, in those times of oncoming death, had panicked, reading the articles in the _Prophet_, believing their every word. He had felt the urge, the desire, the need to protect his family and, in his frantic fear of the unknown – he'd been scared of Harry, even though he wouldn't admit it to himself – he'd demanded that Ron sever ties with Harry. It had backfired, something the panicked, afraid Percy hadn't been able to foresee. He'd just went on worsening the problem until, before he knew it, he'd been spending while little time he had away from his job in a cramped and dirty flat above a poorly-paying shop in Diagon Alley. And, before he knew it, he'd been going to work every day later and later, eating himself up with guilt, risking his job – his only source of income, and therefore food and water – on the balance. Not only his job had been lying in the balance – his very life had been also at stake.

He'd been plodding through life with a heavy heart because of all the horrible things he'd done, and he knew it. That revelation had practically killed him every time he'd dared to dwell on it, to think of all the errors he'd committed in those letters he'd sent, that family friendship he'd ignored and cast himself out of. All that, along with everything else and most especially his guilt, had caused him to drift along as he did. He'd known there was a way to repair the damage, but he hadn't. He hadn't even attempted, not before his old gray owl – he'd been forced to sell Hermes and buy a much cheaper one – had come to him with that fateful parchment letter clutched tightly in its beak. He hadn't tried to repair the damage he'd done, and he'd paid for that grave error a thousand times over. He had paid for it again and again, again and again, again and again. Now that he had finally come back, he was happy just to have been accepted back into the Weasleys' midst instead of being scorned, hated, despised. He was glad that they had understood even without his explaining to them. He was glad that they'd understood, that they'd let him come back. And, most of all, he was glad that he was back. He was glad that he'd returned to the ones he loved, and he was glad that a feeling he hadn't felt for years had been restored to them – a feeling that hadn't ceased to grow since he'd first felt upon receiving that letter, a feeling that had been there all along without his realizing it. A feeling that now, he realized as he thought back to it, was compassion, kindness, humanity. And, Percy saw, his family would never abandon him. He'd thought they would, but he now knew better. They loved him.

And he was human again.

Percy sighed, running his mind over the events of the past. He'd always wanted to do something, but he never had dared, had never tried. He'd always been too scared, too afraid, feeling not like the Gryffindor he should have been but instead like a low-life, cowardly Slytherin. He'd known, and though he'd known he hadn't done a single thing, not a single thing since before he'd received that letter.

Now, though, he knew that, while the slate was partially clean, it wasn't completely so. In fact, it was still grimed with the mistakes of the past, those grave errors that had been engrained in so deeply that their etchings still glimmered in darkness. They'd been literally branded into the slate and their faded, charred remains were still there; the slate was clean, all right, but only partially so. He'd lived, and he'd lost. Now, he felt more alive than he ever hand in those past years, and not just alive – he also felt human. He felt human, and he was back.

-----------------------

Harry listened intently for a familiar voice. One came, as If to the call of his thoughts, and he was surprised by it. Standing not too far away from him was Hagrid. Of course, Hagrid was a decent person and one of the Weasleys' good friends, and Harry's surprise was quickly put into remission at the thought. However, along came another reason as to why Hagrid had appeared, dressed in a suit that for once could look classy on another, smaller man (it fit him, though it seemed quite tight) with a white rose pressed into his collar, seeing as it would not fit one of the buttons on his suit.

Madame Maxime was there, which could also account for Hagrid's very presence. No doubt, being Fleur's headmistress, she was there, towering majestically over everyone, dressed in a beautifully woven blew gown as she spoke quietly in the pews to a man and a woman he recognized from the Triwizard Tournament as Fleur's parents. Talking, engaged, along with them was Gabrielle, Fleur's younger sister. Harry didn't know how old she was, but she had definitely changed in the three years since he had last seen her – her face had angled out more, some of the baby fat having been dropped smooth away. Not far off from them, though he did not know why, stood Minerva McGonagall.

Then, with a jolt, Harry realized: with Dumbledore being dead (the thought alone made him flinch outwardly, and let's not bother with what went on inside his head), she was now Headmistress and therefore, logically, was there. She was up on her feet, talking with a strict, dull-looking man with neatly combed, flamboyantly red hair. It must have been that distant relative Mrs. Weasley had once mentioned, an accountant and a Squib to boot. That, of course, explained why he was here; all this could not be revealed to a Muggle, after all.

Among the crowd, Harry recognized no other familiar faces. Some, however, looked quite like Fleur – these, he figured, must have been her relatives. One woman, however, did more than make his eyes widen: looking at her, Harry realized who she must have been. Extravagantly tall – over six feet – with long, flowing locks of silver hair and a barely noticeable smattering of wrinkles across her face, she was dressed in an elegant green silk robe. She was clearly old, and, he knew, older than her appearance would suggest, but that did not hinder her beauty. Feeling his eyes riveted onto her, Harry was almost standing up when he realized that he was not the only one. He could not think, merely half-sit, half-stand, ramrod-straight in the pew as he could in the crowd as he tried to get a glance at this ravishing, alluring, beautiful stranger. He kept on staring at her, barely feeling the tug on his back and the shoulder against his, only aware of she in all her wonderful beauty as he tried to stand, not even recognizing that something was pulling him down, preventing him, stopping him from taking her all in.

"Harry!" whispered Hermione loudly, simultaneously pulling his and Ron's dress robes and blocking their eyes with her hands. "Don't you see?"

"Don't pull the wool over my eyes, Hermione. I have to tell her about my incredibly magical invention that will end world hunger," said Ron dreamily, still entranced by the beauty of this woman without seeing her.

"Ron!" hissed Hermione, making sure Harry was not trying to move her hand from his eyes as he swayed on the spot, murmuring useless nothings at breakneck speed. "Don't you see? That's Fleur's grandmother!"

"What? I don't understand." Ron clearly didn't as he shrugged Hermione's hand away from his eyes and focused once more on the magnificent woman. "So what?"

But Harry stirred out of his reverie, the urgent tone in Hermione's voice waking him from his romantic haze. "Ron—" he began, though it was hard to get the words out with the beautiful woman's face still dancing in his mind, "She's a Veela."

Suddenly, Fleur's grandmother realized that the eyes of every male in the room were on her. She clapped a hand to her mouth, her words audible over the babble and murmur of the crowd. "Pardonnez-moi, s'il vous-plaît!" she called, beginning to rush out between the pews. "Je vais chercher mon masque, et je reviendrai bientôt!"

"What?" murmured Ron dizzily, finally having taken notice of Hermione's furious efforts to stop his staring. Slackening where he sat, squinching his eyes tightly shut as he pushed her hand away, he repeated the question. "What did she say?"

"Something about a mask." Harry, making sure his eyes were closed, motioned to Hermione for her to remove her hand.

"She's going to get her mask, and she'll be back soon," translated Hermione.

"Mask?" Ron was quizzical, and Hermione nodded.

"That's what she said. Veela often wear masks so as to disguise themselves." She cast her eyes over Ron, something that greatly resembled annoyance in her eye. "You, of course, already know what happens without one."

Before long, though, Fleur's grandmother had returned, her face obscured by a mask, just as Hermione had prophesied. The mask was ornate, fine, well-crafted, yet plain and unadorned; the highly polished black wood had been wonderfully carved, leaving two slim, almond-shaped holes for her eyes. Ron craned his head– Madame Maxime was sitting in front of him – and tried to hear what she was telling the priest who, as it was, knew French.

"It's private, all right?" Hermione snapped impatiently when Ron asked just what the aged Veela was talking about. "Oh, won't you boys ever learn French?" Her reply? More confused stares. "Come on, Ron and Harry. He hopes that their marriage will last. Life is becoming harder and harder to live, you know."

"Learn French?" Ron merely scoffed, eyes finally moving from where they were riveted onto the Frenchwoman's turned back. "Why would I need to, Hermione?"

But a strange look had come into Harry's eye; when he spoke, his words were slow, pensive. "Maybe she's right, Ron." He paused to think. "I mean, the Horcruxes could be anywhere. Maybe we'll have to go to France."

Hermione looked at him appreciatively, but Ron scoffed again. "So? We can get a translator."

"You know, you're right." Hermione was smiling as she looked at Harry. "Maybe I could teach you boys so that I'll finally end up learning if you're even denser than your marks indicate."

The three of them burst out laughing.

-----------------------

Darkness had descended, thanks to a few wizards and witches standing by; these, the priest's helpers, were in charge of lighting the lamps in the area. Now they stood faithfully by, watching along with the rest of the crowd as Fleur swept forward, followed by Gabrielle and her father, a gray-haired, somber older man. Her flowers fell every which way, littering the ruby-red carpet, causing their sweet scent to permeate the air but never touching Fleur as she finally stopped before the podium. Fleur's father stopped, patting her shoulder and murmuring a few encouraging words before leaving.

Bill was standing by the podium, focused on the clergyman before him. His arms were crossed, his shoulders set. Then, when the sound of her steps came to his years….

Slowly, Bill turned. Slowly, Fleur pulled down her veil. And then, started and complimented by a voice that pounded through the room, the ceremony began.

"Dearly Beloved, we are gathered together here in the sign of God – and in the face of this company – to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony…."

"Matrimony," whispered Fleur, her eyes shining, "we will be togezzer forever in matrimony, Bill."

Over an hour, the final questions were being posed.

"Do you, William Weasley, take this woman, Fleur Delacour, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, to have and to hold from this day forth as your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I do."

"Do you, Fleur Delcaour, take this man, William Weasley, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, to have and to hold from this day forth as your lawfully wedded husband as you love him, honor him, and protect him, in sickness and in health, in prosperity and adversity, and forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto him, for so long as you both shall live?"

"I do."

"Do you mutually promise, in the presence of your friends and family, that you will at all times, and in all circumstances, conduct yourselves toward one another as becomes Husband and Wife?"

"We do."

"Then you may now kiss."

And then, later, it was over. The priest thanked everyone for all their help and support, the lights were reset into place, and Bill and Fleur ran to their families, faces glowing and radiant, looking lovingly at each other, arms wrapped protectively around each other's shoulders.

"Mum, Dad, I'm a married man, now!"

"We 'ave done it! We loved each other, and now we 'ave married!"

"Can you believe it?"

"We're going spending our lives togezzer. Isn't zat wonderful?"

"Yes, it is. I'm proud of you, Bill. And you too, Fleur." Molly looked ecstatic, hugging them both as hard as she could in the home.

"It can't be easy getting married in times like these," remarked Arthur. "I'm proud of you both, too. You knew what you had to do and did it."

"Au contraire," laughed Fleur, "it was easy!"

"You know, I never would 'ave expected you two to 'ave married." Gabrielle appeared behind Fleur, hugging her sister with a smile. "Before you started speaking of 'im, I never knew he existed, either."

"Gabrielle, I am ashamed! Speaking of your sister's husband in such a way!"

"No, Madame Delacour, I don't mind, not as long as we're together. And besides, she's right." He chuckled, ushering their mother away from his bride and her younger sister. "She didn't know I existed."

And so it was, celebrating, that the whole lot of them left the room.


	15. Ceremony

**Yay! With this chappie this fanfic is officially my longest one on this account! Hurray! (dances ****and ignores everyone who's staring at it like it's out of its mind, which it quite possibly is) OK, now that all's been said and done (figuratively speaking, of course), it's time for the fanfic!**

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Harry quickly shuffled over to the chairs lined up against the walls of the cavernous room that the reception was busy filtering through by means of a sizable silver door and sat. He was soon joined by Ron and Hermione.

"Er, d'you know what we're supposed to do?" asked Ron unsurely as the lights slowly began to dim. "And what's happening?"

"The ceremony is about to start," replied Hermione, escorting Ron and Harry up and away from where they were seated. "Traditional wizarding weddings always begin like this. I read about it in _The Life and Times of Today: Modern Wizardry_."

"And now, Bill Weasley and Fleur Delacour – you may kiss each other!"

Ignoring the voice that had sounded above their heads so loudly that its echo was still pulsing through the air, Fleur dragged Bill onto the stage. "No!" she called back at it, arms crossed and standing at her full height. "No, Bill and I prefer to dance!" She turned to him with a sly smile, offering him her hand.

"We do!" Bill grabbed it, a grin on his face, and twirled her around him and away.

Caught in the age, the time, the moment, the young lovers danced.

Every time their hands clenched tight, every time they beamed lovingly at each other, every time they brushed against each other, it was clear. Every time they looked into each others' eyes, every time they slid into each others' arms, every time they saw the love that radiated from each other, it was clear. All was clear to the young lovers as they danced – for now, nothing else mattered; for now, it was just the two of them, joined together in the start of a new life. All was clear to the young lovers as they danced – here they were, in a new age, in a new beginning, caught in the dance that renewed their lives. All was clear to the young lovers as they danced – there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that could deter them, push them forcefully away from this path of rejuvenation, new life.

And, as if reading each others' minds, they stopped.

"I love you, Fleur," murmured Bill.

"I love you, Bill," whispered Fleur.

Bill's white rose had slid from his buttonhole and was now clenched tight in his jaw, glowing starkly in the half-light as he faced Fleur. Her chest was heaving, sweat was running down her forehead, her hands were trembling as she clutched Bill's, but she could not have ever looked happier, more alive. She was now, quite simply, not Fleur Delacour, but a lover. Across from her, Bill's eyes were alight with a fire, the glowing fire of love that could never be extinguished. His hair was so damp with sweat that it was plastered against his pale forehead, but he too looked happier than anyone had ever seen him – happier, more alive.

Together they made quite a picture, such a picture that, with a puff of smoke and a snap, it was shot. However, quite soon that picture was stamped underfoot as Bill and Fleur rushed over to their families, knocking the snapshot clear from their hands, overjoyed, vibrant, more more alive than ever before.

Another voice broke the absence of words – though not of sounds, for they could all hear well the sound of the old Muggle camera clattering to the floor, and the new picture being ripped apart underfoot. It was the same booming voice that had hailed the two from earlier on, and it was at it again. "All right, Bill and Fleur, you've had your way, but now you have to let the floor to the others. As if your not kissing hasn't annoyed me enough already, that is."

"Oh, shut your trap!" Fleur grabbed Bill's chin as she once more pulled him to the center of the dance floor. "Kiss me, you fool!"

And so they did, for such a time that, when all was said and done, Ron looked up, shocked, from where he'd been staring at Harry's watch. "Bloody—!" he cried, incredulous. "It lasted almost two minutes!"

The others overtook the dance floor while Mr. and Mrs. Weasley set about with Fleur's parents to retake the shot of Bill and Fleur after their dance. "Come on, you two," said Molly, impatiently waving for them to come to their parents' side. "We've got another picture to take."

"So what if the last one was trampled underfoot?" Charlie grinned as Mr. Weasley handed him the camera. "I'll just take another, is all."

"Why must you use Muggle cameras anyway?" asked Mrs. Weasley as the entire group they formed about the happy couple, still cold and sweating from their dance (and, though they would not admit it, the exceptionally long kiss). "Arthur, I know you love tampering with Muggle devices, but this is just going too far—"

"I can assure you, Molly, it's not." Mr. Weasley, not the least intimidated, was busy teaching Charlie how to use the black plastic. "I haven't tampered with it."

"I think I got it," Charlie declared a few seconds later, twiddling one of the buttons on the cumbersome device strapped to his neck. "Smile for the camera."

Mr. Weasley smiled at Charlie, patting the small vial of transparent purple liquid tucked into his belt. "And this will help us make Bill and Fleur move in the pictures like normal wizarding cameras make them do."

"Say 'cheese'!" Charlie held the camera up and there was a flash. Soon, Charlie lowered the heavy device, examining it under a scrutinizing eye. "Dad, what make of camera is this?"

"It's an old Muggle kind called Kodak." Mr. Weasley was thoughtful as he returned to his son's side and pried the camera out of his hands. "It was on sale in an old Muggle store. Those new-fangled ones are actually pretty expensive, so that doubled it. I would have got it anyway, but—" he shrugged with a grin "—can't resist a bargain, you know."

"So those dancing classes we took together paid off, didn't they, Fleur?" Ignoring everything that was happening around them, the lovebirds got to discussing quietly among themselves. "You're an excellent dancer."

"Yes, but I 'ad a wonderful teacher," admitted Fleur, smiling gently as she looked into her lover's eyes. "Shall we dance again?"

"Need you even ask?" replied Bill, and the two waltzed away toward the dance floor.

---------------------------------

Blizz had resumed playing, their warm melody wafting through the reception hall. Harry was standing with Ginny by a table laid out with refreshments. On the dance floor, Ron and Hermione were together, talking in hushed voices. Amused at his friends' delayed antics, Harry listened in on their conversation.

"Hermione?" Ron looked furtively from left to right, hesitating. "I— I just want you to know that— Well, remember all those things I was doing last year with Lavender? I— I want to apologize for having done them."

"Took you long enough, didn't it?" Hermione extended a hand. "Now, then – shall we dance?"

Ron looked uneasily at her hand before a smile overtook his features and he grabbed it in a firm grip. "You needn't have asked."

"Why was he apologizing now?" Ginny raised her eyebrows. "I know why, but do you?"

Harry sighed. "Gin—" he began. "Romance is romance, and love is love—"

"You want us to get back together again, don't you?" interjected Ginny, without missing a beat, perfectly and punctually in tune and time.

Harry didn't even bother hesitating. "Yes, I would like that," he said.

"Good. Now that we've settled our animosity, let's dance."

And, with that, she grabbed him by the collar and swept over to the dance floor.

As they danced – he wasn't very good at it and as a result Ginny, who was something of an expert, was guiding him along – he thought of a question, wording it carefully in his mind. Finally, he asked it: "Ginny, what exactly do you want to do to me?"

Ginny sighed as brought him into a masterful swirl. "Look at it this way, Harry," she began, appearing at his side just as the spinning ceased and taking him once more by the arm, "you love me."

"Er— I never thought about it like that before but, yeah, I do."

"So simple, yet so eloquent." Ginny looked up into his eyes with a grin as she brought him slowly along, encouragingly along in an artful sideways sweep. "Anyhow, Harry, so you love me. You never stopped loving me since we broke up in fifth year, right?"

She was right, of course. Tactfully, Harry answered, "You haven't either."

"Exactly." Ginny snapped her fingers, motioning for Harry to let her go. This he did, and she gracefully glided off into a prancing twirl of her own. "See, Harry, the thing is, we never stopped loving each other. We only broke because—" and here she smiled back at him again as she appeared neatly in his arms "—as I put it, you have a saving-people thing. Yeah, I understand why you did what you didbut now I want you back."

Harry looked at her fondly, this time bringing her forward, guiding her along as well as he could. "Ginny," he went on quietly, looking into her eyes, "I can't stop you from coming with us no matter what, right? You don't want to leave me, and I don't want to leave you. And now you want us to come back together, don't you?"

Ginny cocked her head, masterfully matching step for step with Harry. "Now that you want to—" and here she thrust herself toward his cheek "—yes."

Harry was so numb with joy that he barely remembered the kiss that followed.

---------------------------------

"Hermione," said Ron.

They were still at it. Their talent was, for once, matched evenly from one to the other. Her hair was brushing his neck ever so lightly, sending chills down his skin. Feeling his ears reddening, he repeated her name, a little more loudly, ending in a questioning curve.

"Yes?" Her voice was low, quiet, a murmur. "What is it, Ron?"

"I—" Ron hesitated, not knowing what to say. "I— It's just that—" He shrugged, by mistake swinging Hermione too fast, too hard, as he started a circle in the dance.

She winced in pain. "Ron, don't do that. Honestly, some people never learn."

Flinching inwardly at her snappish tone, Ron worded what he wanted to say carefully in his mind. "See, the thing is, Hermione, all these years we've both been bickering—"

"Too much," agreed Hermione, shaking his hand from her waist and dancing away for a few long moments. Once she was back in his arms, she continued, a little too calmly, "It's kind of hard to explain just why though—"

"Hermione, I think it's because— I think it's because—" Ron began, embarrassed, licking his dry lips. "I think—"

"I really fancy you," they said at the same time.

Hermione stopped abruptly, and Ron's grip relaxed around her body. They both stood there, saying nothing, just staring at each other. Nothing passed between them besides the rise and fall of their heaving chests and the involuntary intakes of air. Finally, Ron ran his tongue over his lips again.

"H-Hermione—" he stammered, not knowing how to explain what he was feeling.

"R-Ron—" she stuttered, for once at a loss for words, her voice shaky.

"I— I think Lavender fancied me, but I was only with her to make you j-jealous," Ron managed to splitter out. "I— I mean, I really liked you, but I was never aware of it b-before today—"

"Ron," Hermione whispered, a dazed, hazy, lovestruck look in her glazed eyes. She gazed at him, still not knowing what to say. "Ron, you never were very good when it came to matters of love—" But they were not words of impatience – they were numb, deadened words said out of habit.

"I mean, I never th-thought about it, I guess," Ron ploughed bravely onward, bringing her forward and holding her tight against his chest despite his flamboyant ears. "If I had, I s-suppose I would have realized that I-I did like you, deep in my heart, b-but I was always so selfish th-that I never noticed—"

Hermione came to herself at last. "Oh, Ron, but don't you see? I—" She took a deep breath, hesitating, and when she did resume her words were slowly spoken, tentative. "I— I was just as selfish as you were, Ron. I didn't try – not once— I didn't even try— I could have but I never did— I never tried to get together with you, either." Shamefaced, she lowered her head from where it was pressed against Ron's chest and looked away, voice faraway, a tear sliding slowly down her cheek. "I— I knew I should have, b-but I didn't even try."

"We're going to change that, Hermione." Ron's had dropped a pitch, but it was now calm, courageous, decisive. "I— I know I like you now—"

"We always did, Ron, we just never admitted it to ourselves." Tears coursed down Hermione's face faster, but her voice didn't quaver, didn't tremble like her body. "We were always too stupid, too ignorant, too – too _imbecilic _to admit that we liked each other, but we never did— We always knew it in our heart of hearts, but we never did."

"But we're going to change it, Hermione." His voice was still low, but it wasn't shaking anymore as he looked at her through determined eyes. "We are, Hermione, and I won't take no for an answer."

Hermione turned to look at Ron, her eyes shining. Tears were running freely down her face now, but she didn't show the least trace of uncertainty, of hesitation, of fear. "Finally, Ron, your idiotic stubbornness has brought us somewhere."

They both stared at each other and cracked up laughing. It was slow at first, tentative, but eventually it swelled into the kind of laughter only a young couple could have together, the kind of laughter another person would not understand. It was the laughter of love, and when it was finally over, tears of joy were running down Ron's face as he surveyed Hermione through new eyes, feeling the blood rushing through his veins.

"So, you're saying I'm a stubborn idiot?"

Hermione grabbed him by the neck (in spite of the fact that she had to stand on tiptoe). "Ron, do you have any brains at all?"

Ron complied.

---------------------------------

"Ginny, don't do this," pleaded Harry, frowning down at her. "I really want to, but I know—"

"—it's too dangerous? Why? Won't it mean that there'll less bickering, Hermione?" Hermione gazed at him, love in her eyes. "Come on, how is getting together going to—"

"—attract Voldemort toward us?" Ginny smiled up at him. "Well, then, Harry, we'll just have to—"

"—stick together, won't we?" Hermione was unusually defiant as she looked him deep in the eyes. "Come on, Ron know we can do it. I mean—"

"—love conquers all? I could agree with you, Gin, if there weren't the most evil Dark Lord in all of history out for my blood." Harry looked at her, determination strong in his eyes. "Don't you—"

"—understand?" Ron saw her shaking her head, and he pressed on more quickly. "This could be dangerous – for you, for me, for Harry, for _everyone. _Why aren't you—"

"—with me on this one?" Ginny looked at his imploring eyes, a smile curling her lips. "Why do you think I'm not, Harry? I love you, Harry, and nothing you could do could change that. I don't care if You-Know-Who is after you, since—"

"—I'm going to be with you when that time comes. Besides, do you really think V-Voldemort would care, Ron?" Hermione saw him looking back at her, eyes wide and panicked, yet tinged with acceptance. "We're—"

"—too smart to just fall for that?" Harry gazed at her, open-mouthed. "Gin, he's already gotten to you once, and that time it was just because you were my best mate's innocent sister. Who knows what he could do if—"

"—he finds out that we're together?" Ron looked deeply, tenderly at her, eyes bright. "Do you really know, Hermione? You-Know-Who could—"

"—put me under the Imperius Curse?" Ginny looked steadily, deeply at him. "Can you tell me how, Harry? Because I just don't think he's going to waltz over to us and ask, 'Please can you give me your girlfriend so that I can put her under the Imperius Curse?'. "C'mon, Harry, maybe it's not as—"

"—dangerous as you think it is?" Hermione was now looking solidly up at him, holding him more tightly than before in her grasp. "Of course it is, Ron, but together we're—"

"—even stronger than we were apart?" Harry shook his head, seeing from the corner of his eye the smile tugging at her lips. "How is that, Ginny? If Voldemort knows we're together and manages to manipulate you somehow using that, that could—"

"—make things worse for us?" Ron looked, devastated, at her. "Obviously, Hermione, don't you see? C'mon, he can get to me through you that way, and from then—"

"—to you?" Ginny smiled at him, looking him through eyes that showed wisdom far beyond her years. "Of course he can, Harry, but if we train ourselves properly—"

"—he won't as dangerous." Hermione hesitated, but her eyes never left his face. "Yes, Ron, he'll still be dangerous and able to kill us with one flick of his wand but, you see, if together we stand—" She shrugged, appealing to his better nature. "If we stand together, than maybe V-Voldemort will—"

"—see us as more of a threat to him?" Harry regarded her dubiously, doubtfully. "If that's even possible, Gin, he'll still—"

"—be able to kill us, Hermione, just like that." Ron snapped his fingers, feeling sadness well in his heart as he looked at her strong, set, pigheaded expression. "Can't you understand that—"

"—I'm never going to leave you, Harry?" Ginny felt that her eyes – which were tear-filled, she knew – were getting to him, hitting him hard inside. Fiercely, she continued, "I don't care about what could happen, I don't care about the danger, I don't care about the risks, since—"

"—You-Know-Who knows we're a force to be reckoned with?" demanded a stricken Ron as she stared at her. "What are you saying, Hermione? That's just—"

"—a pile of rubbish, Gin." Harry continued staring at her, feeling her eyes forcing through his soul but not yielding – he needed to protect her, in spite of his anger, pain, sadness. "I mean, we're strong enough already and we'll only get stronger, but that won't stop it. After all, Voldemort—"

"—doesn't fear Harry anymore." Hermione looked deeply at him again, not giving up under the pressure of his tone and gaze. "Ron, if V-Voldemort doesn't even think Harry's a threat to him anymore – which he obviously is, but then again he always did underestimate him – who says it's going to matter if—"

"—we get together or not?" Ginny continued staring back at him, fully aware of his own cool gaze. "Look, Harry, it won't matter in the long run; _we're all in danger from You-Know-Who. _And besides—"

"—just because I fancy you, Hermione, doesn't mean that I'll be weaker in battle with You-Know-Who if I can't be with you." Ron continued to look at her, regarding her with eyes and a voice that he hoped were much calmer than he felt. "Look, I don't care—"

"—what you think about this, because, whether we're friends or romantically involved with each other, Voldemort's coming after me." Harry knew he had struck a chord deep within her; shock and anger sprang onto her face, and before he knew it he was fending off enormous amounts of guilt sent by his conscience. "He will, Gin, and—"

"—it won't protect me any more than it will you if we get together." Hermione, unhappy and resigned, looked deeply at him. "Listen, Ron, don't you understand?

I—"

"—love you too much for us too be apart." Ginny took his hands in hers and continued staring up into his eyes, forcing the fierceness out of her voice. "Listen, Harry; I just don't care about it anymore, since—"

"—I just want to be with you." With resigned sighs, Hermione and Ginny shrugged off their embraces and held their hands. "Listen, Ron, Harry, you just can't stop me…."

"Yes," Harry and Ron murmured together, and suddenly the four were aware that they were still standing on the dancer floor, brushing each others' shoulders. The others, Bill and Fleur among them, were watching them, heartfelt love and comfort in their eyes as a great big 'Awwwww' rose on the air.

Hermione reddened furiously upon noticing every eye of the crowd on them. "I never knew you lot was watching us…."

"Were we really that noticeable?" Ron, his own ears an even more furious shade of red, guided Hermione away from the dance floor. "Was it really that obvious?"

"I think it was," Ginny murmured, smiling up at Harry as she followed Ron and Hermione off the dance floor.

"It doesn't matter." Harry's voice filtered from the ears of the throng to deep within their minds. "It doesn't matter anymore, not as long as Voldemort is destroyed— Who's with us?"

A resounding cheer rose from the crowd, heralding his words, and Harry raised a fist. "Who's ready to help kill Voldemort once and forever?"

"We are," said the crowd.


	16. The Truth Will Set Him Free

"Heads up!" called Charlie, the waving of his wand causing a table to careen wildly about, floating high above the heads of those gathered in Ron's bedroom.

"Charlie! Do be careful!" yelled Molly, shielding the person nearest her—Percy, who smiled faintly, seeming dazed—from the table's airborne onslaught. "You don't want to knock someone's head off, now do you?"

"All right, all right, Mum; point taken." The table's furious thrashing ceased as it was directed, floating, around the small room. "So what's going to happen to you two now?" Charlie asked as if there had been no interruption, parking the table at its usual place beside the bed, which was now once more the only one in the room. "Where are you going to live and what are you going to do?"

"We're going to join ze resistance," replied Fleur, guiding a small lamp onto the table. "Zey are living at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place as zey work on 'ow to kill You-Know-Who, ze Order of ze Phoenix."

"Yeah, anyone who wants to help with the war effort is welcome," added Bill, wrapping his hand around Fleur's shoulder. He glanced nervously at the quiet man beside them, the quiet man who was taking everything in with a dignified expression on his face but saying nothing himself. "What about you, Perce?"

Percy hesitated before answering. "It's been days since I came back," he replied, taking his wand from the pocket of his robes and going to stand beside Charlie to help him with the home improvement. "Most of the time you've been leaving me alone, letting me stay but not asking me about what happened when I was— I was gone." He stopped, flicking his wand through the air so that Pig's cage soared to its usual place opposite the bed. "It's time I come out of the closet." He sighed, the sigh long, drawn out, tentative. "I'm messed up."

_Poor Perce, _Charlie thought sympathetically a he surveyed his brother, _all these years, before he practically disowned himself from us, he was always so pompous, so assured of himself. Now he has to think about everything before he can even say it. _All he did, though, was continue watching Percy closely before asking, "And then? Are you going to go with the Order with Bill and Fleur?"

"Do it, Perce!" encouraged Bill, pulling out his own wand and casting a spell on a coffee table so that if flew into place along the west wall. "Come on, you know you should."

"Yes, dear. You deserve it." Molly was looking meaningfully across at Percy, smiling as she exited. "It'll be the best thing that ever happened to you since— since what happened last year. Now, if you don't mind, I must be going; I have a meal to prepare."

"It will 'elp you become a better person," added Fleur, magicking a small black box onto the table. "What is zees broken Muggle radio doing 'ere, Bill?"

At that, Bill flushed faintly, faltering, stumbling with his words. "Er— Well, Fleur, you see—er—Dad wanted it so he could tweak with it. It shouldn't be in Ron's room, but there's no room in the twins' or Ginny's room…." He stopped his monologue to look pointedly over at Percy. "And don't you dare tell Mum I said that, Perce."

He blinked, not knowing what to say, but was saved: At that point, Fleur gave a bark of laughter. "Your father eez so queer!" she chuckled, and was rewarded by a sharp, carefully thought out glower from Percy. Falling silent, she added, "Well, I guess zey are fascinating, zose Muggles. How do zey survive wizzout magic, after all?"

"They get on." Percy expelled the last shabby, shambling piece of furniture, a dilapidated, partially filled bookshelf, to where it belonged—down the staircase, away from Ron's room and into his own. Again, a pause between his words. "You shouldn't laugh, Fleur."

"Yes, I suppose you're right," Fleur apologized regretfully, gently removing Bill's arm from her shoulder and striding confidently over to the broken Muggle radio. Taking it and turning it carefully in her hands, she couldn't contain herself. "'Ow well does it work, zough, if your father wanted to use it for 'is experiments? Apparently even broken Muggle theengs can still work, but zees—"

"—doesn't work." Arthur popped his head through the doorway and glanced furtively from side to side before stepping in, closing the door behind him. "It doesn't work, but I wanted to repair it with magic." A dreamy look came into his eyes as he faced his daughter-in-law with a wide smile. "Who knows, Fleur—maybe someday wizards and Muggles will be able to live in peace together, knowing our secret." He shrugged, taking the radio out of her hands. "Until then, we can only try." A pause as he thought, setting it back on the table. "Speaking of which, are you done with the furniture?"

"Sure are, Dad," replied Charlie, with a meaningful glance at his brother. "And, if I'm not mistaken, Percy has something to tell you all." He knew that his fears were confirmed when, staring at Percy, his younger brother didn't answer. "Right, Perce?"

As was quickly becoming the norm, Percy didn't answer right away as the bright, ambitious, law-abiding younger Percy would have. Instead, he stayed there, not saying anything, lost in thought. Charlie knew he was wording his response carefully in his head; what had happened these past years had affected him so much that he would never do anything ever again without mulling on it first. "Yes," he said at last, heaving a sigh. "There's something I want to tell you all."

The happy, childish innocence when it came to Muggles and all their oddities evaporated from Arthur's face. Nodding solemnly, he placed a hand on Percy's shoulder and directed him to the door, opening it for his son. Tossing Bill, Charlie and Fleur a purposeful look from behind him, he added, "Come along, you three. I think that Percy needs to tell us all."

The three of them passed significant looks at each other from behind Arthur's back, but the middle-aged man took no notice – or, if he did, he did nothing to dissuade their hurried glances. Percy kept up the rear as they passed through the door and descended down the stairs.

"Percy?" quested Molly, watching her son intently as the others poured in one a t a time. "Are you all right? You look sick."

Percy looked up, brushing his hair from where it had fallen over his forehead. "Yes, Mother, I'm all right." He still looked—sounded, even— frail, but in the smile he gave her and the tone of his voice lay a shadow of the confidence, of the ambition that he'd had long ago. He was different—he had changed—but, in time, he would slowly, gradually, eventually become a better version of the young man he'd once been. "I have something to tell everyone."

On the table, Fred and George were tinkering with yet another deck of Exploding Snap cards, this time altered so that their diamond-patterned backs flickered like Muggle cartoons. Looking up, George exchanged a look with his twin. "Took you long enough, didn't it?" Though his tone was spiked with annoyance, what could only be called love for his brother was clear inside it.

Standing up, Fred swaggered calmly over to the staircase. "Ickle Ronniekins!" he called, a pleased smirk curving his features. "Mummy wants you to come down for nap-time."

"What is it?" Ron asked disgustedly, appearing at the head of the stairs, only his bright mop of Weasley hair visible from where he was standing. "And why couldn't you have just Apparated here to tell me instead of hurting my poor ears?"

George materialized at his brother's side, grinning up at the flaming blot. "Because, little brother, we wanted to cause you inordinately large amounts of pain." A smirk identical to Fred's plastered his face, but his voice was even louder. "And tell Harry and Hermione to come with you. They're needed."

---------------------------------

Percy flinched at their loud voices, but he didn't do anything else, preferring instead to seat himself and stare morosely at the swirling wood pattern beneath his fingertips. Staring solidly—but without anger, without grumpiness as he perhaps once might have had—at the table, he said nothing when he heard the sounds of the six of them coming down the stairs. They came down different way ways—one with Apparition, two with habitual grins on their faces, one confused and disoriented, one of them trying very hard to stifle their giggling, and the other looking as if they actually understood what was going on.

"Sit," invited Molly tersely when Fred, George, Harry, Ron and Hermione appeared at the foot of the stairs. And, without another passing glance, she instantly began counting heads. "Let's see…. We're all here."

"All right, then," said Percy, returning his gaze toward the table; he didn't want to face what lay in the near future just yet. "I—" he hesitated, a hesitation that was now becoming clearer to them all, one that had clearly been caused by the gashes that ran, scars that would never heal, down his soul—"I have something to tell you all."

Nobody moved, not even Fred and George, who were now still, silent, unmoving, saying nothing. Seeing that he had their attention and knowing that it was time to face fate, Percy took a shaking, shuddery breath. "OK, I have a lot to explain." He paused, speechless, looking, into their eyes. "I have to explain what was happening these past few years—that, and why I was such a coward."

Stillness greeted his words. There was a lot of truth in that simple sentence—what he'd done had been the fool's last, cowardly resort.

Percy sighed again, leaning back in the chair. "Let me start from the beginning…."

---------------------------------

They were all looking at him, the lines on their faces—sharp, visible lines, Percy realized with a start, that hadn't been there before—telling him of all the pain they had been through since he'd left. They had suffered, he knew, and, now, he was going to pay for what he had done.

As his hand curled about the wine flute in his hand, Percy knew what he had to do. Forcing himself to be courageous, Percy steeled his voice. "It all started a few years ago…."

No one said anything, but Percy wasn't surprised. They had all changed in his absence—as had he. Taking another shaky breath, he proceeded. "What happened in the beginning is that I was working for the Ministry of Magic, in the Office of Bothersome Paperwork, for a man named Dallin Mauntell."

"I've heard of him." Charlie's lips parted slightly, his words barely audible. "He's not a nice sort, is he, Perce?"

Charlie's sympathetic gaze was enough to make Percy wince, remembering all that had happened, all that he'd done, all that he'd caused. Remembering that he had to be strong, he nodded, his voice a strangely suppressed whisper. "No. He wasn't. As a matter of fact, he was downright awful."

Percy felt pressure on his skin, and glanced downward, surprised to see Fleur's hand straying close to his shoulder. "Yes," she murmured, "it eez not easy working zere. I 'ave 'eard zat as well."

Percy nodded, drawing strength from the loved ones surrounding him. "It wasn't hard, work-wise, but it was still one of the hardest things I've ever done."

"Go on," Arthur encouraged quietly.

"Well—" Percy broke off, bracing himself for the words that would come out of his mouth. "See, the thing is—"

He cut himself off again, feeling that he couldn't possibly go on. He squinched his eyes tight shut, clamping his fists tight together, throwing his head back toward the ceiling. He stayed like that for a while, not thinking, not straying toward what he had to say. As a matter of fact, he was doing just the opposite—his mind was numb, deadened, completely still; he couldn't think, period.

Eventually, Percy became aware of eyes on his face, tender eyes whose brows were now creased with concern. Eventually, Percy became aware that no sound could be heard in the entire room, aware that what was happening was happening because of him and no one else. Eventually, Percy became aware of breathing that was shaky, uncertain, unsure, breathing that he knew was his. Eventually, Percy became aware of a body stiffening, shoulders setting themselves, arms crossing themselves. Eventually, Percy became aware that he had to spread the news of what had happened to him, no matter how dark in may have been.

Percy breathed deeply, jerking his head forward as his eyes popped open, facing each and every one of the others in the eye. They looked back at him, concerned for his well-being, anticipating what he as now going to confide in them, knowing that the truth had to be told.

Remembering, seeing those sad, sad eyes staring back at him, Percy took one last deep breath and reached impulsively for the glass of elderberry wine that his mum—his dear, sad old mum—had handed him a few minutes ago. Gulping down its contents in one swig, he set the glass back down on the table and went on in a low voice, thinking each word before it appeared on his lips. "Afterward, I guess things sort of took their own way from there." He paused, looking forlornly down at the glass, hoping to see just another drop of dark, rich liquid. "Things got worse and worse, I suppose. I mean…." He trailed off, not wanting to go on. Slowly, uncertainly, he stood, glass in hand. "I'll go on after I get myself a refill…."

He felt a hand on his wrist and looked – not as surprised as he could have been – down to see none other than his father, holding his arm in a surprisingly firm grip. He made to say something, but the word died on his lips; he sat, replacing the glass in shame as his dad's word rang through his mind: "I think you've had enough now, Percy."

He came to a full halt, his thoughts racing as he replaced the flute on the table. Nodding, he seated himself once more and resumed his narrative, forcing himself to look them in the eyes. He had to tell them what had happened—his demise, his ruining, his self-destruction.

"Yeah, you're right, Dad." Stroking the glass's handle, Percy slowly returned to the world. "I'd better get on with it." He paused, composing himself. "What happened next is that I was uptight, anxious, insecure…. It was a time of war, and I didn't know what to do. I was scared that trying to contact someone could hurt me in ways I couldn't imagine, as—strange as that sounds."

He trailed off again, looking up at his loved ones. They stared back solidly at him, the love clear in their eyes along with the message: 'Do it. You know you have to.'

Percy sighed, understanding the message. "I didn't know what to do; in moments of pure indecision, I did what no man should have to do."

"Indecision is not a sin." Dad was speaking quietly, but Percy heard—heard, and understood. "You it wasn't entirely your fault."

But Percy knew what he had done, knew what had happened because of how he'd reacted, knew the consequences of his actions. "Yes, but that's no excuse for the way I acted." Percy sighed again, grasping the flute's stem in a tight grip, staring downward, away from the eyes of his family, the eyes that reminded him of everything that had happened since he had left them over a year ago. "After all, I did what I did. That's not right, even at the time. It's no excuse."

"Well, Percy, you don't have to tell us if you don't want to." His mum stared down word as well, toward the wood beneath her hands, her eyes downcast, and Percy felt the stab of guilt. "I understand that it's hard on you, and don't blame you for not wanting to tell us."

"Well, Mum, I will. It's for my own good." Percy looked up again, preferring to keep his vision focused on the ingrained wood designs, still averting their eyes. He wanted to comment, but he didn't want to see the looks on their faces when they found out, even though he knew it was the wrong thing to do. "You understand, at that time I was scared—terrified, like as not, and undecided. So, I let my fear take hold of me. I remembered Harry, of course, but I just…."

He broke off, closing his eyes wanting to continue with the pain of everything he had done weighing on the shoulders. A few seconds later, he was assaulted by a strong wave of emotion: guilt and sadness, but mostly outrage—anger at himself, anger at the way he'd acted, angered at the way he couldn't tell his loved ones of why he had scorned them, left them for others, others he barely knew.

But, Percy knew suddenly, he could. He just had to make himself, he just had to push himself, he just had to force himself down to make the rest of the way. After all, he was already down that path; he needed to do what he wanted to do, and he wanted to do what he needed to do.

"Well, at that point as acting mostly from fear. And not just from what was happening, either—I mean, you know, Dallin Mauntell wasn't the best boss I ever had…." He smiled ruefully at them, surprised at how easily it came. Was he really cheering up that fast? Nonetheless, he went on one, knowing that his reasoning was confirmed wrong when the short-lived smile quickly disappeared from his face. "Not only was I terrified by the war and had affected me, but Mauntell somehow forced me to believe in my fear that Harry was in everything the _Prophet_ made him out to be." He broke off, sighing profoundly, surprised at the weight that had disappeared from his chest. "So, in my fear, I did what exactly what Mauntell told me to do: I sent out a letter to Ron, telling him that I didn't want him to associate with Harry anymore."

Ron made as if to utter something less than pleasant; unexpectedly, his mouth contorted, as if he were deciding not to speak after all. Percy watched him intently for a few seconds, his mind hard at work. Had his brother changed that much when he'd been gone?

As if understanding what was going on in Percy's mind, Ron nodded softly, his mouth moving in muted speech. Percy nodded back, understanding that his brother understood, and resumed, though this time, there was slightly less guilt then he'd had before.

There was more anger though, anger at himself, anger and everything that he had done, had caused, that was his fault. When he put voice to his thoughts, he felt a strange sort of fury break out inside of him. Forcing his teeth to clamp tightly together, he stopped for briefly, forcing his thoughts to slow and his emotions to fade in his heart. When he spoke again, he felt calm, refreshed, renewed. "I didn't do anything that night, brainwashed into thinking that what I had done had been the right thing to do. I just went to bed in my flat, falling asleep quickly and—as a matter fact, when I did, I remember feeling peaceful. Serene, calm, happy—as if I'd actually done the right thing."

"They brainwashed you." Ron's mouth was definitely open this time as he shook his head and silent disbelief. "And here was me, just thinking you were a git." He paused, his mouth still moving but no words coming out, as if his mind had just realized the impact of what he'd said before his mouth did.

Percy shook his head quietly, not knowing what to say. Perhaps, he decided, he'd better keep silent for now; Ron had changed, for sure, and it was best not to push his brother's newfound respect of his feelings.

Aware that he had yet to continue his tale, Percy paused, at a loss for words. Finally, rubbing a chin that was coated in auburn peach fuzz, he nodded slowly. "Yes," he said, "yes, they did, but it was my fault for believing it. I'm a Gryffindor—I'm not supposed to be subject to fears like this."

"Yes, you are, Percy." Harry looked over at him from the end of the table, each word ringing straight and true to his heart. "We're only human—were all subject to fears like this. But that doesn't mean we can't fight against them, and do what we know is right."

"Yes." Percy bowed his head, and silence filled the air around him.

* * *

**Yay! I finally updated! (does a happy dance) Man, it's been a long hiatus!**

"**Two weeks?" Pikasqueaks pointed out.**

**(ignores) What's your point? And, anyways, at least I have! (dances some more) That's it for now, folks, but don't forget that constructive criticism would be appreciated but unnecessary!**

**Pikasqueaks watched Fanficcer dance away into the sunrise. "It's crazy, all right." He rolled his eyes.**

**(ignores some more) 'Till next chappie, peeps!**


	17. The Moment of Truth Passes

"I didn't realize it at that time, but, at that point, I'd changed. I wasn't at the point of no return, not yet—but it's a good thing I got the invitation when I did. Or else…."

Another silence greeted Percy's words. He knew they were taking their time to digest what he'd said, that he couldn't help but wonder if there were some other motive. Maybe they wanted to leave him time to think, muse, ponder in silence—or, and he knew this was quite possible, they were too shocked to reply.

"It mostly fear that drove everything I did, at that point." Percy looked away from them, glancing back down toward the wood beneath his hands before forcing himself to jerk his head back upward. And then, he knew, he had to do it. He had to go on. "It was fear that caused me not to send another letter to you out, fear that caused me not to even attempt talking to Dad, fear that forced me to obey Dallin Mauntell's every word."

He stopped again, not having the will nor the desire to go on. At this point, he could see, his family and his friends were losing faith in him—they weren't looking at him, instead preferring to glance uneasily at each other, instead preferring to avert his eyes.

But, now, he understood; after what had happened, they couldn't trust him anymore. He was sure of that—he knew they loved him, but it would take them a sufficient while to recover, and now was not the time. Now, they all needed time to learn, to grow, to change, a time that would be spent learning how to trust him once more.

"And it wasn't just that I was forced to obey them out of fear—I was starting to believe them, too." He paused again, looking away from them, not wanting to see the uptight expressions they sent one another. He knew he deserved it, but that didn't mean he wanted to see what he deserved, to be punished as all criminals were. Still, though, he knew he had to be strong; he knew he had to go forth, advance, get the truth out. He had to tell them what he had to tell them, and there was no denying it. They had to know this, sooner or later, and, with the war that surrounded them, that meant now. Right now, before the night was up. Right now, before they lost any more faith in him.

So, it was by setting his job and forcing himself to look for each and the eyes that he went on with the story, resume telling of the pain that had forced him against his will, the pain that he himself, a Gryffindor, should have known how to ignore, had to survive even with it burdening his shoulders. "At that point, I was forced into believing that Harry really was insane."

He fell silent again, once more at a loss for words; turning away from them all, his eyes roved the kitchen that surrounded him. He needed to find strength, he needed to find determination, he needed to find the will to go on—and this was not the way to carry it out.

But he did know how he could do it, though. Quietly taking a stand, not bothering to murmur an apology for reasons he couldn't—no, wouldn't explain, he took the wineglass in one hand as he headed for the sink, feeling there protesting voices fill the air, feeling their eyes press into his back, his soul. He deposited the flute in the sink, still from their eyes boring deep into him, still feeling pain that was the true punishment of everything that happened since that fateful time over a year ago.

When he returned, he saw that they were still looking gravely up at him, their faces contorted in worry, their brows furrowed and concern. Mum cried out, a strangely suppressed shout, her hand snatching ouward to grab his in a firm, reassuring grip.

Surprised by the unexpected action, he stood there, holding her hand, looking at her in concern. His family didn't deserve to be pushed through this because of him, his family didn't deserve to be the subject of all his idiocies, his family didn't deserve to live as they had, knowing their son had left them.

He reluctantly broke his hand away from Mum's, looking away from her, feeling his mind reeling. He didn't know what would come out of it, but he could not let them live through this. He had to explain, had to let them know, had to tell them of his past, of the past hiding in so many shadows that it was a wonder they'd wanted him to come back in the first place.

Sitting back down, the thought of the wine having disappeared completely from his mind, seated himself once more. He looked back up into their eyes, feeling their tender concern and worry for him, feeling all that they were feeling for him—all that he'd caused, all that was his fault, all that he'd brought unto them.

"Well, at that point, things have really changed, I suppose. I—don't ask me how, but somehow—I managed to cause everyone to think differently of me. Now, I don't know about Mauntell, since he was a—" he broke off, surprised by the grin that was enveloping his mouth "– bloody git, as Ron would say."

"Anyone's a git for believing anything the_ Prophet _says about Harry," George cut in, vehemently shaking his head. "What kind of bloody prats would believe that he's anything but a savior, anyway?"

"Still believe in you, mate," added Fred, grinning as he waved his own wineglass in the air. "Never doubted you in the first place."

Percy saw something then, saw something that he hadn't expected flash in his father's eyes—guilt. But before he could be sure that it had actually been there, flitting through those sorrowful brown eyes, Dad was already lifting up his own glass to silence the twins, banging the table down loud enough for everyone to hear. "Let's let Percy go on, shall we? After all—" and here he hesitated, his eyes flicking nervously toward Percy "—Percy has a story to tell, and it's extremely important to him."

"Yes." Percy bowed his head, once more avoiding their eyes, avoiding the gazes that followed his every word, his every movement. He knew that, sooner or later, he was going to have to look deeply into itself, into his very soul, to why he'd acted the way he had—and, more importantly why he couldn't go on telling the story. After all, he was a Gryffindor, and Gryffindors were brave—not cowardly little fools like he'd been, like he was. Understanding that, though, in order for it to work, in order for him to be true Gryffindor, he had to push on despite his cowardly fears, he clamped his teeth tightly shut before picking up the narrative, surprise that a sudden pain was forming in his head, a pain that stabbed into his mind, causing him to lift a hand to his forehead for a minute before he felt strong enough to go on. "Now, you see, I started to notice that the other employees in the Office of Bothersome Paperwork didn't talk to me. They had, originally, way back when." He sighed, looking back down at the table, once more facing the fears that had been stalking him since he had first received the invitation to Bill's wedding. "Back then, I was excited too, excited to have a slightly better-paying—if extremely boring—job. But then, as time went on and Mauntell seemed to need my help more and more, I stopped talking to them. I don't remember exactly what happened when they did try to talk to me at the time; I just remember few hurt glances in my direction when I returned to my work. But, by now, it was becoming apparent—either I had done something terribly wrong, or they were all ganging up on me." He sighed again, deeply, profoundly. "At the time and—believe it or not—I was foolish enough to believe that the latter was actually the case." His hands clenched into fists. "But now I know it wasn't."

-------------------------

He didn't need to go on, so Percy buried his head in crossed arms, losing himself in the sadness, the guilt, the pain.

Everyone was glancing uneasily at each other, at a loss for what to say. They didn't know why – it didn't seem like that, abandoning his family in favor of the Ministry for Magic, but, on the other hand, he'd never been more scared in his life.

Ron, not to his surprise, found himself consumed by rage. How, why, what for? Why had Percy done all that, why had Percy acted like such an idiot, acting like the git Ron now knew he truly was?

Immediately, suddenly his thoughts were clogged by a little voice, one that strangely resembled Hermione's, that sounded in his mind, telling him not to blame Percy, since he had changed since then, since his life already too difficult. Ron glanced at Hermione—was she a Legilimens who had got into his head somehow?—but her shocked silence told him everything he needed to know. The annoying, ethical, logical thoughts that had been niggling at him for the past few years had developed into his conscience, and now he was conscious of it.

So, before even Mum answered, Ron found himself placing a hand on Percy's shoulder. "It's all right," he said quietly. "You're back now, and that's what's important."

Percy looked up, a tiny smile curling his lips. "I never thought I would have heard that coming from you, Ron," he replied hoarsely—perhaps from shock, perhaps from all the talking he'd done. He took his horn-rimmed glasses off slowly and inspected them under a careful eye, as if examining them for memories of the past year. Putting them back on, he looked up at his family again. "I—" his face contorted suddenly, his former smile pitching into an impassive line. "I'll understand if you can't talk to me again."

"Nonsense, Percy." Dad strode over and hugged his son in a hearty one-armed hug. "Of course we want you back. You're a Weasley, Percy, whether you like it or not." When Percy smiled faintly back at him, looking dazed, Dad whispered softly to him, "Everyone trumps us sometimes, Perce."

Ron watched as everyone forgave Percy for what he had done, even Fleur, who barely knew him. Actually, what she did was stop directly before Percy, eye him through a practiced eye, and almost breezily toss out, "I am weeth zem, Percy. I forgive you, even zough I do not know you very well."

Percy watched her, that odd smile still on his lips. "Well, you're going to have to. I'm your brother-in-law now, Fleur."

Ron, who was too busy staring at Fleur, caught up in his fantasies, gave a start. Brother-in-law—that was right; they were all related to her now. _She's my sister-in-law now, _he mulled thoughtfully, watching as Mum enfolded Percy in an enormous hug. _But Percy's still my brother, and, bloody git, he'll stay that way…._

"Perce," began Fred; Ron, realizing that he'd missed something, pushed himself up into a keen listening position.

"We'd like to say that we're sorry," added George.

"After all, we were being prats," Fred went on reasonably.

"Prats like you never would have known us to be," George continued, though Percy, along with everyone else, knew it wasn't true.

"So we're sorry." Fred stopped, crossing his arms. "On the other hand, though—"

"—you were always a bigger prat than us." George grinned wickedly.

"So we're even, Perce." Fred exchanged smirks with George. "So you get the high, high discount of one Galleon off your every purchase from a Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes store, of which there will be a lot of in the near, near future."

"Offer not valid in WWW stores outside Britain," finished George.

"Boys, be nice to your brother." Hands on hips, Mum was at it again, staring down the twins, but, luckily, Ron's newfound conscience preferred to think nothing of the matter and instead hold make him hold his peace. "Let him have what he wants free from your stores—if you want to, that is," she added kindly, turning toward Percy.

"I can assure you, Mother, if I need anything from their store—I don't think I will, but it is one of the best on the market, so perhaps I shall—I can buy it with my own money." Percy, still smiling oddly, caused Ron to roll his eyes. True, they weren't as poor now, what with the twins' store thriving and being one of the most popular in Diagon Alley, but even Percy had to realize the value of the rebate of even a single Galleon. "Besides, it would still go to the same family either way."

"Anyway, listen," Hermione went on, looking flustered but still calm, and Ron felt a twinge of appreciation tug at his heart, "Percy, Fred and George are right—you were being an idiot before, but that can change. You're back now, and—" she hesitated "—you can help with the war effort, Percy. One's going to come along soon—any day in a few months, Voldemort will strike, so soon we'll barely realize it."

Percy dipped his head dignifiedly, and Ron notice that he can react at the name. "Yes," he acquiesced quietly, the smile being wiped off his face and replaced with a determined expression, "yes, you're right."

-------------------------

"I guess it's time to go, then," said Hermione in an effort to be bright.

"Yeah, I guess," sighed Ron, reluctant to leave his home and family. It was the next day; the foursome's belongings had been packed into a single trunk (Hermione's idea) and bewitched to the weight of a feather. First, Harry had decided, they would be going to Godric's Hollow, where his parents had lived, by Knight Bus. Then, they would take the violently purple vehicle to Diagon Alley to stock up on what they would need for their journey, their journey to defeat Voldemort, and, just in case, a whole lotta Floo powder.

"Does anyone know where Godric's Hollow is?" asked Ginny, dropping to her knees and snapping the catches on the large trunk in which were all their valuable items were cached away. "I'm pretty sure someone will know on the Knight Bus, but—"

Harry stood, watching her as she resurfaced, trunk clenched tightly in one hand. "Yeah, they will," he replied, his stare rapt, intent, focused on the fiery redhead. "Speaking of which, there was something in the _Prophet_ today…."

"Stan Shunpike disappeared." Hermione brooded thoughtfully, looking slightly shocked at rounds hand, which was traveling nervously on her arm. "They say he escaped."

A moment's pause trickled by before Harry aroused them from their trance. "Anyone would escape if they were captured for no reason at all, and Stan's no exception. He can't live the rest of his life rotting away in Azkaban while Scrimgeour tries to get me as the Ministry's mascot and completely ignores the war that's going to come, now can he?"

"You never give up, do you, Harry?" Ginny shook her head admiringly. "But you're right, of course." She looked up at him, her gaze strong, stout. "Everyone can ignore the war, but not us. We'll fight and defend for our whole wizarding nation, try to do what's right."

"Can't deny that, Gin."

They stood there, transfixed, lost in each other's eyes, for several tension-stretching seconds. Finally, Ron, annoyed, called out, "C'mon, get on with it already!"

And then they kissed, doing what Ginny had once referred to as 'Eating each other's faces.'

"That wasn't what I meant," groaned Ron, burying his head in his hands.

Hermione, ignoring him as usual, hesitated before speaking. "Ron—Remember that discussion we had before?"

"Yeah…. I mean, it would be nice…." Ron's vague, wayward reply was going anywhere but to the point. "Do you really want to get together, Hermione? Because You-Know-Who wouldn't be afraid to manipulate one of us, use the Imperius Curse…."

"Oh, do say his name already!" Hermione was impatient. "Honestly, Ron, even if he does, he should know that even friendship is a strong a bond as love."

By now, Harry and Ginny were out of it and standing there. Harry seemed rather calm; Ginny, however, looked as though she wanted speak, but Harry had a forceful hand on her shoulder. Finally Ginny, annoyed, called out, "C'mon, let's get on with it already!"

"Oh, shut your mouth," Ron answered, grinding his teeth together, but he wrapped his arm protectively around Hermione's shoulder. "I don't know what we'll do, Hermione, but we'll just…be more intimate with each other, I guess."

"You're learning, Ron." Hermione smiled up at him. "Finally."

"Same for us," Harry added, interrupting Ginny before she spoke.

"We'll, erm…." He glanced purposefully at Ginny, frowning at her. "We'll tell each other what we need to tell each other, both as friends and as—er—world-savers."

He said nothing of romance.

"Yes, we should be intimate each other, like Ron said," Hermione added at a rather rapid pace, her cheeks still tinged with red. "It'll help us—we need to tell each other the important things, tell each other what we need to tell each other that's about our mission. At the same time, we'll be strengthening our friendships."

"Friendship can lead to romantic love, but romantic love can fade." Ginny smiled at them as she took Harry's hand. "Friendship never does."

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**W00t! Second update today! (dances) Percy is somewhat OOC, though, I guess, so I should probably—erm—I don't know…. I—um— (breaks off) Gah, never mind. Until next time! ****(dances away into the sunrise)**


	18. The Seed of Revolution

He was standing there, looking down at the empty glass clenched tight in his hand, alone in the world.

Seen his son in such a state, Arthur walked over to the solitary figure standing by the kitchen table. The hectic sounds of Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny preparing for the greatest journey they would ever take—a trunk being rolled across the floor, possessions being Summoned across the room, wood hitting metal and meal hitting wood, wands being swished and flicked—were floating down from upstairs. An uptight atmosphere pervaded the Burrow; voices were coming from upstairs, voices that were nervous, hushed, worried.

This Weasley, however, didn't seem to be aware of anything that is happening around him; as a matter of fact, he didn't react right away when Arthur touched his shoulder. He didn't react for quite a while, come to think of it.

"Percy."

He looked down at the flute in his hand, not looking up at his father. A long silence followed; Arthur waited patiently by, his hand still posed on Percy's shoulder, waiting. He would come to himself soon—no, he would never be the same again, but even after all this Arthur knew Percy would react to such a simple, emotional statement.

"I don't know what to do anymore." Finally Percy spoke, his voice low, hushed, quiet—quiet, but not calm. "It's just—it's just that I'm feeling so misguided. Everything's different, Father, and I just don't know how to react anymore."

"I understand, Percy. I've been through it too." Arthur looked down and his son, his forlorn son staring unhappily at the wineglass in his hand. "Maybe I can help."

Percy nodded. "Yes. You can do that, Father. But you don't need to. I—I can survive."

"You can, Percy, but you need help. We all do." Arthur pried the flute from Percy's hand, taking it with him as he walked across the kitchen. "And I plan to help you survive—and to change."

"Yes…." Percy said no more, but and Arthur knew he was thinking about it, pondering, ruminating, his mind lost in thought; he smiled slightly, watching the redhead in the corner of his eye as he turned around, toward the single bottle that was standing on the table. He concentrated on his task for a moment, then got side-tracked, wondering if he were doing the right thing to do. Was it really the right thing to do, giving his son something he clearly didn't need?

But Arthur pushed the fought from his mind. Of course it was right; Percy needed something to boost his spirits, to boost his strength, and this was the perfect thing. Percy wanted it, Arthur could see, and he nodded to himself, believing his own thoughts. His son needed help, and this was going to be the one of the things encompassed in the word.

"Here, Percy." Arthur returned to his son's side, holding the glass out toward him. "Drink this. It'll help. And then we can talk—I'm sure there's a lot you want to know about the Order, and there's a lot you don't already know about it."

"I—" For second, there was something in Percy's eyes as he took the glass—a sort of bliss, a sort of excitement—and then it was gone. "I— I can't do it, Father. Not that anything bad ever came from it before, but—"

"I know, but doesn't help to take a break once in a while?" Arthur winked, patting his shoulder. "Trust me, Percy—you deserve this."

"Yes, I think I do." With a smile, he tipped the food toward his mouth, closing his eyes in happiness as he drank the rich, wonderful elderberry wine for a few brief moments. Finally the glass was empty; looking but he did know just how to react, he handed the glass back to Arthur and nodded again. "Thank you."

"No problem." Arthur smiled, choosing his words carefully in his mind. "Now, then—about the Order…."

"Yes. Is there any way I can help?" Percy looked up into Arthur's eyes, asking, imploring him for advice. "I—I'll be able to understand if you don't want me there."

For the first time that day, Arthur laughed—well, technically, it was a chuckle, but that was besides the point. "Of course we'll accept you—after all, Mundungus Fletcher is with us, right?"

Percy nodded, smiling, even allowing himself a chuckle this time. "Yes," he whispered, laughing quietly, "That is true, isn't it?" But, before Arthur knew it, the expression faded from his face—and, in a matter of seconds, he became that silent, brooding young man once more. "Still, though—how should I help the Order?"

"Well," Arthur began, deep in thought, for he hadn't exactly planned this out, "what would a man who's used to the Ministry be able to do to help the organization save everyone? They know about us; they know about You-Know-Who, too, just like the rest of the world, and I dare say everything's been publicized enough already." He paused, shaking his head—he didn't want to think about it, for sure. "No, we don't need the wizarding world to know about it any more than they do—what we need is more people to join the resistance. Er—draft more onto our side, if you will."

Percy's eyes were now moving quickly about in thought. "But, Father, haven't a lot of people have joined already? I mean, with Dumbledore's death and all, the wizarding world should have been made more aware of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's presence among us, and there for they would have reacted by joining the Order of the Phoenix. And this would have therefore caused a flood of new trainees and Aurors in-training, which naturally would mean you should already have a lot of people working on your side."

Arthur was impressed. "See, I always told Molly the Ministry was a good place for you." Realizing the enormity of what he'd just said, he stumbled, flustered, making amends. "I mean—well, I mean when it comes to analyzing, making educated guesses, and things like that— not what it would do to your character."

"That's fine." Despite his words, though, Percy seemed unnerved; his eyes were moving about a little too quickly, and a slight tremor broke his voice. "It did help me, after all—if this hadn't happened…. Well, if it hadn't I might still be a pompous fool…."

"You've matured," Arthur said quietly, but he made no move to continue when Percy looked up at him in surprise. "But you're right, of course," he went on, speaking quickly so as to compensate for the time he had lost in saying that, even though he knew he had had to, "These new—skills you've acquired will help us, Percy, and you know it."

"I'm— I have an idea." A spark of the old, familiar Percy was beginning to light in his eyes; a smile was stretching across his face, a smile wider than one Arthur would ever have imagined him having. "As you know, Father, things are always changing of the ministry of magic. But, as I'm not so sure you actually do now, it is always room for changing the ministry of magic. Things are different now, of course, but the Ministry always willing to accept new ideas at the if it projects them in a new light, in a way that makes them seem as if they're doing the right thing, which of course drives people to believe their words, believe their actions." He was talking rapidly now—nay, he was chattering, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, quite a change from what he had been but minutes ago. "You see, Father, with the way things are going, the Ministry would obviously accept any help thy culd get in order to help give off the impression that they, if anything, were able to handle themselves under the rule of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, if not sotp it. Now, I definitely agree that Rufus Scrimgeour was a better Minister than Fudge ever was, letting the wizarding world see the way things were instead of trying to deny it and hide it from the public—and, therefore, he would accept the Ministry and the Order joining forces. We'd be able to help the Ministry earn faith in the public, as well as new power for both organizations and faster, more efficient results."

He stopped abruptly, breaking off as if the impact of his words were coming to him and he didn't know why—his eyes, rather than alive, now seemed numb, and his face went pale with shock. "But—well, Father, I don't frankly know if this is the right way to go, though. I mean…. What with all that's been happening, there's a reason why the Order and the Ministry don't already work together…."

"Percy—" Arthur spread his arms outward in a welcoming gesture "—this is exactly what we all need."

Percy looked up at Arthur, genuine curiosity in his eyes. "Father—Dad, are you sure?"

Arthur enfolded his newfound son in a hug. "Of course I'm sure, Perce."

-----------------

Hermione was doubtful.

But then, being Hermione, of course she'd be doubtful—this was not one of those things that needed absolutely no research whatsoever (if such a thing had ever existed, granted), after all. And not only that—it sounded like it would need a lot of at worst, controversial at best, and risky at the medium. What was the chance that Rufus Scrimgeour and almost everyone under him would simply allow the Ministry of Magic to merge with the Order of the Phoenix?

None, that's what.

Or was it? Hermione bit her lip, her mind hard at work. Should this work, it would be a big help to the Order and the wizarding world in general, but that would take a lot of convincing. And more than just conviction, when it came to that; a lot of extra work and time would have to be put into the project, as well money that the Ministry would not want to spend on such a project.

And yet…. It could work, provided they all threw enough work into it—the Weasleys could do it, especially if they somehow pulled Bill and Charlie from the jobs they would restart in a few weeks (but how would they earn enough money to do that, if such a thing should somehow happen?), but she, Ron, Harry, and Ginny would be preoccupied as it were with their search for the Horcrux. And, not to mention, it went deeper than that—such an audacious movement would probably attract Death Eater attacks to the Ministry like flies to honey, and that of course meant even worse things could loom in the future.

But still….

The logical part of Hermione's mind could not be stifled by her conscience, which was quite nicely managing to send thoughts to her mind, thoughts telling her that this would be a movement which would benefit humankind all over the country. Yes, that was true, but…. Honestly speaking, things would still flop one way or another, which could result in widespread danger….

Hermione promptly cut off her train of thought upon hearing feet tap the floor in impatience. Never mind that—for now, it was time to question Percy's motivation, his thoughts, his ideas, the time, effort and, quite likely, money he was planning to put into it. This was his idea, after all, and, moreover, she sensed that he was going to be highly dedicated to this project of his. That would, of course, help a decent bit, but, in the long run, would his master plan really succeed?

"Percy?" She looked up at him at last, noticing with a start that he had pulled out a sheet of parchment and was busy scrawling onto it with a rather worn pigeon-feather quill. "Are you sure you want to go through with this? For one thing, I don't know how the Ministry will react and, for another, it seems pretty risky…."

"It's worth a try, though, isn't it, Hermione?" Percy didn't look up at her, but his hand trembled slightly as the quill advanced across the parchment. "Don't you think that it would help in a variety of ways—it would help spread the word about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, for one thing, and for another it would of course ensure that the Order would get more support and help in stopping him. And, for another, the Ministry's Aurors would be able to teach the Order members some things they didn't know and vice versa—and not to mention the publicity this whole matter would get via the _Prophet_, other wizarding newspapers, and possibly _The Quibbler_. The headlines would pique people's interest, cause them to buy more issues, which would help the Ministry's failing economy, which would attract more Ministry members to the idea…. I could go on, of course, but for now I daresay that's enough." He grinned, not looking up as he ceased writing for a few seconds to gulp down some elderberry wine from a wineglass standing by his rapidly moving hands. Extending his arm toward her, he asked, "Could you please refill this, Hermione? I feel that I'm in need of some more."

"No," Hermione snapped, wondering if she still had some of that familiar old control over Percy. "You've had enough of that."

Indeed she must have; his quill stopped its never-ending path across the paper, and he avoided her eye with a barely audible "Sorry." He said nothing else, but, from the way his eyes were jumping abut on his face and his trembling hands, he had gotten the message.

"You've had more than enough, actually, but that's not what I want to talk about." Hermione stayed firm and unrelenting, looking deeply into Percy's eyes as his hand strayed back to his quill and he resumed his scribbling. "You see, Percy, while this has the potential to be just what the Ministry needs and you backed it up realistic and believable points, it just doesn't seem very…oh, I don't know…organized. We can't just simply send a letter to the Ministry imploring that they help us. It's impolite, even rude, and it will annoy them to no end, especially coming from one of their workers."

"Yes, I know, but…." Percy struggled with his words and, before she knew it, he was once more that quiet, thoughtful Percy he had been before, a man facing obstacles that had been set up by none other than himself. "I just wanted to help the Order," he finished.

Hermione was thoughtful. "Well, Percy, you're older and know more about the Ministry then I do, though I honestly don't understand why you asked me to come here and not your father or older brothers—"

"Yes, but…." Percy was fighting inwardly with himself, his face contorting in rapid-fire succession for a few seconds, and then an odd look came over it. "Well, truth be told, Hermione, he's more than a little absent-minded, you see." He paused reflectively, and she could see the pain in his eyes. "Scatter-brained, if you will, and Bill and Charlie haven't had too much contact with either Fudge or Scrimgeour; I'm not sure—"

"I understand." She cut him off with a wave of her hand, uncomfortable and guilty. "Your idea is good, though, and like I said your hypotheses are quite sensible, but I think it needs work." She paused, focusing suddenly on the parchment that lay beneath his quill. It was covered in visibly hurried but surprisingly neat cursive, fuller than she would have expected it to be—fuller and less legible, actually—but she could see that each idea jotted onto it was detailed and precise. "I don't know what you should do exactly, but—"

"I know." Percy was silent once more, concentrated on nothing other than writing four words below that mass of cramped cursive, nothing other than four words which Hermione knew before she read them.

_Ask the Ministry people._

"You're right." She nodded. "We'd better ask them first, see what they think, and then—"

"—will that be it?" came a voice, and she turned to see Ron, flanked by Ginny and Harry, at her shoulder. "We—er—we have to hurry up and leave, Hermione."

"Yeah," added Ginny half-heartedly, seeming uncertain.

Harry said nothing, but the look he gave Ron said everything he needed to say.

There was an evident reason as to why Ron had acted the way he had—he wanted to help, much as he couldn't, but he wanted to get on with it….

Hermione surprised herself, then.

"Oh, Ron, you're hopeless," she replied irritably, turning back to the piece of parchment sitting before her chair. "Can't you see Percy and I are trying to save the world another way?"

-----------------

Percy blinked as Ron, muttering darkly under his breath, stalked out of the kitchen. Ginny, after a moment's pause, said, "I hope that he's preparing," but she didn't make a move to follow him. Harry, on his hand, took initiative and seated himself beside Hermione.

"Well, come on, will you?" he called out through the open doorway. "You know we have to do it, Ron."

"And you know you want to," added Ginny, surprising Percy again by grinning. "Don't try and tell me otherwise, Ron—I know more than you think I do."

How could she smile in a time like this? Percy wondered. He returned to the piece of parchment, ruminating—and then he remembered he'd been happy too but a few minutes ago. Blinking again, he was stabbed mentally as his sense of right and wrong kicked in:

"Ron! Come here!" he yelled, his head jerking upward. "We have things to plan—and get the others while you can. We need to tell everyone about this."

More angered muttering came to his ears, accompanied by the sound of retreating footsteps. Knowing that Ron was actually obeying him for once, Percy turned back to his audience:

"And now we need to compose an official-sounding letter for the Ministry of Magic—any suggestions?"

"Did you expect this, Perce?" Ginny, looking perplexed, ignored his request. "You don't even seem a little surprised…."

Percy hesitated, considering. "I don't know," he answered truthfully, not knowing just what he was feeling. "I—I just don't know anymore…." He broke off, remembering the past, and nodded, staring down at his plans. "But that's not the point—we need to make our voices heard, remember?"

"We need to." Harry nodded. "We have to if we want to save the world."

* * *

**Yay! Percy is somewhat in character! (dances again, still ignoring everyone while they stare intently—and perhaps disturbingly—at it) And…um…reviews (coughconstructivecriticismcough) would be appreciated as always. Thanks for reading, all! **


	19. Together We Must Stay

**Guess what? I actually got around to (re?)reading **_**Deathly Hallows**_**, and you wanna know what I think of it? Well—first of all, it's definitely the basis for many good (if not great) fanfics, when it comes to that. However, the book wasn't as well-written as it should have been, considering this the great J. K. Rowling and all. Thugh, interestingly enough, aside from all the stuff that Rowling could've done much better—like, you know (SPOILER ALERT!), all the Dumbledore stuff she brought up even though there was small indication of it in canon and Ron learning approximately one word of Parseltongue (yeah, like it's really that easy), she didn't mention Percy enough. I mean—yeah, I know he did come back, but in all honesty I feel that I explained much more than she did. Actually, I prefer Percy's heartfelt confession in my version of the book. Granted, it can be considered OOC (though that's owing to the character development he's had these past years), but at least I explained his motivation for staying with the dark side—I mean, the Ministry of Magic—in depth. (Now don't get me wrong; I think she's a better writer than me, but I felt like she really neglected poor ol' Percy.)**

**Well, that aside, some parts totally PWNed—I don't feel like putting any more spoilers, but if you've read the book and are (at least somewhat) critical and/or analytical, as I am, you should know what I'm talking about. I mean, like I said, Rowling could have done a much better job, though at least the good outweighed the bad. Maybe I shouldn't blame everything on JKR, though—after all, the media was harassing her and she didn't want to abandon on her ideas just because fans had figured it out. SPOILER ALERT: R.A.B. was too…predictable after all we've seen in the online fanbase—it doesn't help that she was aware that it had been figured out.**

**But meh. To go on, when you think of it that way, I think the books were plot-holed enough to begin with. I could elaborate, if you really must know, though (yawn) I don't want to. Anyways. Despite everything, I'm still gonna continue the fanfic—I don't know how long it's going to turn out to be, but I guess we'll find out sooner or later—and, as a result, here we have the nineteenth chapter of ****Harry Potter and the Big Ending.**

* * *

It was night-time—he didn't know what time exactly, but he knew it was sometime past evening, if the pulled-down blinds lined in shadow and the darkness that lurked upstairs and in the hallway were anything to go by—but he was still working hard at his scheming. His quill was moving as fast as he could move what with the pain that was spiking sharply into his wrist, though, try as he did, he didn't seem to be going anywhere. Gritting his teeth—he knew he couldn't give up now, no matter how strong the pain was or how much he had left to plot out—he started writing faster and faster, feeling the pain accumulate in his wrist but forcing himself to plough onward in spite of it.

A shadow fell over the mess of parchment spread on and around the kitchen table and the wineglass by his elbow, a shadow dim but noticeable in the light emitting from the wand by the wineglass. Still scribbling hastily as he nodded to acknowledge the other's presence, he moved his parchment closer to the source of light.

"Percy."

He didn't bother looking up, though he can almost feel his father's eyes boring deep within him. Still writing furiously and trying just as furiously to push onward despite the pain now cramping up his wrist, he nodded again. "Yes, Father?"

"I heard you, Percy, and I decided to come see you. I—I was thinking about this idea of yours, you see…." There was a pause, a profound pause in which he heard nothing but the sound of his father's breathing. "Are you sure this is such a good plan to go along with?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" Percy asked, then was instantly hit by a wave of shame. His father had valuable advice to offer—better to listen to him then push him away in annoyance. "I mean," he began again, laying his quill beside the wineglass and looking up into his father's eyes, "why don't you think it's such a good idea?"

"Well, perhaps you ought to think about more for simply sending a letter to the Ministry." His father sighed, taking a seat at the table beside him as he laid an arm about his shoulder. "And it's not just that, Percy—when was the last time you looked at the clock?"

"The clock?" Percy glanced curiously toward the clock, his mind whirring away. "What about it?" What was his father talking about? The last time he had seen in, it had been as truthful—and is on—as always. But now…?

There, quite plainly—and, in a way, he may was sure, truthfully—all nine of the hands on the formerly familiar, the comforting old clock were pointing to the words 'Mortal Peril.'

The gasp that came out of his mouth was the only thing he heard for the next few seconds.

"Yes." Dad nodded, slowly, solemnly, all traces of the eccentric man he usually was gone. "And it's not just that, Percy—I'm not sure Ministry will listen to you, seeing as you turned on them and all. We're all in mortal danger, as you can see, and just because the Ministry knows it doesn't mean they'll be willing to accept strange new ideas like yours."

"Yeah…. I know…." Percy sighed, placing his head in his hands. "But that doesn't mean we can't try, does it?" He looked up at Dad, knowing he wasn't imagining the pride he could see in his eyes. "I mean, I don't know if you've realized, Dad, but the Ministry has power over the people. And the people don't seem to be a satisfied with the current situation as the Ministry wants them to be—the Ministry should be willing to accept all the help they can get."

"That's what you'd think, isn't it?" his father said, his arm never leaving his son's shoulders. "But, Perce, at times the Ministry members—especially those of positions of power—can be some of the most hard-headed and stubborn people you've ever known, as I'm sure you know." He stopped, sighing, rubbing Percy shoulder affectionately. "They won't listen to reason…."

"Maybe…. Maybe if we can convince them somehow…." Percy rubbed his eyes, attempting to avoid everything by not looking at it—the current situation, the danger that loomed ahead, his father's pitying glances. But he knew he had to do what he had to do—within seconds his hands had left his eyes and an answer was on his tongue. "Though, you think it's worth a shot, though, Dad? I mean—well, not if the Ministry would accept it or not, but if they did—just hypothetically—would it actually work?"

"In all honesty, Percy?" His father's voice was grim, but there was Percy sensed a shred of hope in it. "Yes, you know, I think it would." He smiled. "It sure is one of the best ideas I've heard from a Ministry member—current or otherwise—in a long while."

"Thanks." Percy smiled, glancing at the watch around his wrist. "Father, do you know that it's—" He broke off, feeling his eyes widen in surprise. "Is it really this late?"

"What?" Dad frowned questioningly. "What are you talking about?"

Wordlessly, Percy held up his arm, showing his father the wristwatch.

"I didn't realize—thanks for reminding me…. If Molly finds me up at this hour—well, that and the fact that you didn't get your sleep—she won't take it too easily. Actually, she'll fuming." He grinned sheepishly as he stood, taking the empty wineglass in one hand. "C'mon—we'd better get going before she finds out."

Percy rose to follow him, then, quite suddenly, surprising himself, he stopped.

"Why aren't you coming, Percy?"

"Why should I?" Percy shrugged, seating himself again as he picked up as his quill. "And that's the way things are, Dad. This is my idea, and if I wanted to succeed, I have to work at it myself." He looked up at his father, feeling a smile creep across his face. "And, Father, you haven't forgotten just how hard I can work on something, have you?"

His father smiled. "Yes, Percy, I know."

And, with that, he was gone.

-------------------------

Percy was aroused at the crack of dawn by a bout of furious shouting.

"Percy Ignatius Weasley! Get right over here this minute!"

"What?" Partially awake, Percy jerked his head upward, pulling away the piece of parchment stuck to his cheek. Barely aware of the slightly lopsided glasses that were hanging from the bridge of his nose, he thrust his head toward the stairway. "What are you yelling about, Mum?"

He winced again at the loud barrage of yelling that met his ears from upstairs. "Never mind that; just get your sorry body right over here this minute!"

"Fine, Mother, I'm coming!" Percy jumped from the chair at the kitchen table, leaving his mass of paperwork in a heap—a heap much bigger than it had seemed earlier on, before he'd fallen asleep—and sprinted toward the stairs.

Even before he hurriedly jumped onto the second-floor landing he knew she was there—this was Mum, after all; when her children disappeared into the night, she would always be standing at their bedside, glaring angrily at everything and nothing, come morning—either that or be wandering about the house in a panic. (Somehow, she always knew when to be glaring and when to be panicking—it depended on the situation, but somehow she always knew when to do which.)

Sure enough, when he got there, his mother was standing before the doorway to his bedroom, surveying him with blazing eyes.

"Where were you all night, Percy?" she growled menacingly, her eyes piercing into his like knives. "What were you doing anywhere but in bed the night after we sent a letter to the Ministry asking them for help collaborating on your idea? They said they were going to arrive tomorrow to listen in on it, and today you need to plan everything out for them—not the best time to fall asleep past midnight among your paperwork, now is it?"

"What?" Bewildered, he blinked a few times while straightening glasses that he surprised hadn't broken in the rush upstairs. "You and Dad sent a letter to the Ministry with my idea?"

"Yes—we owled them yesterday night, when you should have been in bed." She grabbed him by the arm and began steering him toward the open door. "Now come on. You have to sleep."

"No, Mother—I'm fine!" Percy managed to wriggle himself out of her grasp, striding away backwards as to look at her in confusion. "I— Which owl did you use?"

"We had to use Hermes; Errol's not ready for the job yet." His mother pointed threateningly at his hastily made bed, irritated. "Now back in. You wasted over half the night working when you should have been sleeping—as if you haven't worked enough already."

While she paused to take a breath, Percy filled the silence with a question. "But I don't get it, Mum—why are so angry?"

"After what happened the last time, when you left us—" She was no longer growling, though now, it seemed to Percy, she was try hard to avoid looking at him, preferring instead to focus on the empty space of wall behind him. "Honestly, Percy, it's because you just need sleep— It's because—"

"You don't want me to be consumed by work again."

She nodded soberly, all traces of anger gone. "Yes," she replied, finally looking straight at him with a mixture of guilt and sadness, her eyes spartkling. "It's just that."

He nodded. "All right, then, I'll go to bed….." He broke off, suddenly hit by an idea. "But Mum, what about Hermes? I— After I—" he paused, looking into her eyes "—all that happened, I didn't have enough time to take care of him because of all that work Mauntell was loading on me."

Her eyes still wet with tears, she touched his shoulder. "He came home," she whispered.

And with that she was at his door, wishing him a good rest, her eyes still shining but a smile on her face.

Curling up in bed, he watched her leave, his mind away. 'He came home,' she'd said, referring to Hermes, but he knew it went deeper than that—it had been he, Percy, who had come home.

He preferred to think, now. He felt perfectly awake, so he must have been asleep in the kitchen for quite a while—to think about everything that had happened since he'd had that fateful idea a short time ago. He had work to do, and he was prepared as anything to do.

His conscience didn't agree with him, however; just as he turned over in bed, facing his nightstand, he was assaulted by furious pangs of guilt. Was this the right idea? Should he fall asleep, or should he settle to lie in bed, thinking over his scheme instead? Wouldn't it be better to fall asleep, just as Mum had wanted him to do? Wasn't disobeying his family's wishes just the start of bringing on what had happened before? After this, what would he do next? Big changes like that started with small changes like this, didn't they?

Or did they?

No matter. Work wasn't everything, after all.

So he turned away from the unlit nightstand, closing his eyes and lying his mind at rest. Right now sleep was all he needed.

Just before a dropped off, a thought popped into his mind: 'He came home.'

And so it was with a smile that he entered the land of dreams.

-------------------------

The last thing he could remember as he sat groggily up in bed was—well, he couldn't remember. He'd had a sound sleep, then, he decided with a smile.

He didn't know what time it was—the shades were still pulled down over the windows, like his eyelids over his eyes—but he supposed it was early in the morning. He knew the folk from the Ministry would be arriving before long, and, much as he wanted to make a difference in the way they worked, rearrange their whole system of organization where Dark wizard-capturing was concerned, the idea of all this work did not sit well with him at this hour. For one thing, he was barely awake and, even when he was properly awoken, he only had until—well, he didn't know, but he supposed the Ministry folk were going to come that evening. For another, he was sure Mum would not be too pleased with him working on important business, regardless of how important it was, before he'd even bothered to have breakfast, which, he decided as he opened his eyes and checked the clock by the ceiling—for it was indeed morning, and rather late the next morning at that— he wasn't planning on doing with his tight schedule.

Percy took his wand, which someone had placed on the nightstand—Mum, he supposed, smiling—and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Placing both feet on the cold floor, he winced at the cold but nevertheless set about to walking over to the closet and magicking out a crisp, barely worn robe. Just as he was about to remove his current robe—he'd fallen asleep without changing—and replace it with the new one, however, guilt pulled at his heart; he stopped what he was doing, the robe falling slack in his hands. For quite a time he stood there, not looking anywhere in particular, thoughts racing at a rapid-fire pace through his mind. Was this a good idea? Wouldn't he directly disobeying Mother's wishes and—he felt his eyes widening at the thought—wasn't it through work that he'd been brainwashed into fear so intense he'd been afraid to owl his own family?

It was…. Percy bit his lip, glancing uncertainly from side to side. It was, and he knew it perfectly well. His gaze fell on the bedroom door, and he eyed it longingly as, shaking his head to clear his mind, he walked back to the bed. Finally pulling his gaze away from the door, Percy looked down, eyes focused hard on the crisp robe that lying slack in his hands. Guiding a dark gray cape out of his closet and causing it to accompany the robe in his hands by magic, his mind still jam-packed with thoughts and questions. He knew how he could solve things: He'd wish everyone a good morning before departing to his room to work on it the rest of the day. Struck by a wave of guilt so strong it made him slightly weak in the knees, he reconsidered as he laid the robe and the cape on the bed.

No—he needed to do more than that, spend more time with his family so as not to once more be overcome by the pull of work he wasn't forced to do; he needed to do it to make himself a better person. He needed to spend time with them instead of working, and—

And maybe have a bite of breakfast, too, he thought as his stomach rumbled. Yeah, that was it—the regret was strong enough to linger even after his knees had ceased wobbling, but he had decided; he knew that this was, in fact, what he was going to do. Yes, he decided, setting his jaw firmly as he waved a sign that read 'Do Not Disturb' into existence before affixing it to the door and closing it by magic, that was what he would do. He needed to work on this project—he intended for the Ministry to receive his message as best as he could, and this was how he wanted to do it. It was, he thought as he began to dress himself, the best way; he would be able to still his remorseful conscience (somewhat) while simultaneously working on his project and partially satisfying his need for food.

But was it the best way?

Percy stopped again, halfway through slipping the robe over his head. Pausing, he wondered about it—was this indeed the right thing to do? Was it really right to work all day with only the very short gap in which he would grab a small amount of whatever Mum had prepared—a pancake, perhaps—greet everyone with a good morning, and then go rushing upstairs to do the work for the entire morning and, quite possibly, well into the evening as well?

Was it?

Percy shoved the thought out of his mind. He—he knew it was better to deal with the work now, instead of dealing with it later; true, he would miss out on some things, but—then again—

Percy stood still, his mind racing. Was it a good idea to do this? Cons first, he decided, feeling every quick beat of his agitated heart; if there weren't enough cons, he might end up doing it anyway. All right, then: For one thing, he would be distancing himself from his family again; the last time he'd done that, the move had had disastrous consequences. This time, though, even though it was for a smaller amount of time, Percy knew perfectly well any and all consequences could lead to more, and more, and more. Oh—and, not to mention, severing ties that had been assembled back together during such a short time seemed an uncomfortably dangerous idea.

Pros, then—what about those? There had to be something good that would come out of it, Percy, thought aside from his getting much more paperwork accomplished.

He couldn't find anything, though, wrack his mind as he might—not one single good thing that would come out of this, aside from the fact that he would get everything accomplished, no matter how hard he wracked his mind.

Gah, never mind. Percy bit his lip again to prevent himself from grumbling, but, he decided as he smoothed the robe out and set about to clipping the cape about his shoulders, workaholism had gotten him into the whole mess of going with the Ministry instead of his family in a time of crisis in the first place. It was best to be among them, rather than wish them a polite good morning before withdrawing to his room to work a sizable amount of paperwork for the majority of the day.

And, he thought as his stomach rumbled once more, it was better to have a full meal as opposed to a single pancake, as well.


End file.
